Listen
by eb4life
Summary: Keith, struggling art student, suffers every day hearing loud pop music sung only in Spanish (which he doesn't speak) and Lance, jack-of-all-trades, endures overbearing heavy metal at all hours. In an au where soulmates can hear the music that their partners love or listen to often, will this pair bond over their hatred for their soulmates' taste in music? Literal, total fluff.
1. Greateful Solidarity

**AN:**

 **Voltron fic _whattttt_**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **I'm baaaaaccckkkk home! And honestly, I'm ready to not be back home anymore. I literally just got in the other day and already want to go back to school— how crazy is that!**

 **A little bit about this fic: I got this idea off Pinterest (bc I'm original) and felt like giving it my own take. The idea is a little weird and confusing, so be prepared for a shaky story line! Not that you aren't used to that from me! :D**

 **And without further ado—**

 **Chp 1: Grateful Solidarity**

"This would go a lot easier if it was _at least in English_!" Keith shouted to his empty room, slamming his backpack onto his black desk chair, sending the object spinning. The collided with his simple, black desk, a few books falling off the built-in shelves.

Keith growled, muttering under his breath as he stomped across his room towards his beat-up radio. It sat patiently on top of a grey filing cabinet of old projects and papers, antenna standing proudly. Keith smacked the "on" button with more force than necessary, the soft fabric of his fingerless gloves making a sharp sound against the cheap plastic of the device.

The rapid beating of a double bass and the electrifying first notes of the lead guitarist's intro were almost enough to sooth Keith immediately. He took a deep breath with his eyes closed and listened as the bouncy Latin pop stampeding rhythmically through his brain became a dull melody in the background of the musical chaos that is heavy metal.

He plopped down onto his desk chair, sharing the space with his full backpack. Keith tugged a few heavy textbooks out of the spacious bag and dropped them delicately onto the desk, rummaging through the drawers of his desk for his charcoals. Finally finding the tin of dark pencils, he grabbed one of his many nearly filled notebooks and flipped through it to a blank, white page.

He passed several basic and partly-done works, which were slowly filling all twelve of his sketchbooks. One was of two feminine hands tightly intertwined; his lesson for attempting this sketch being on how to rotate objects in space. A close-up eye that belonged to someone who had clearly been crying recently was a lesson in colour. A huddle of faceless bodies standing close as if posing for a picture; a lesson in proportioning and comparative measuring.

All of these lessons were passed with flying colours and relative ease, for Keith. But this time was different. For this assignment, Keith's technical art professor was demanding his students to learn how to put emotion on a page.

This confused Keith. This confused Keith for a lot of reasons. For one, this was a technical class in charcoal and pencil sketches. Technical things were your easily measured criteria having to deal with space, angles, lines, shades, colours, etc. Technical things were not usually emotional, up for interpretation, suggestive or implicative. They were facts. Stone cold facts.

The second problem was how sincere the teacher wanted the project to be. If he just wanted the students to draw a sad person or a happy person, it would be a simple task. _Too_ simple of a task. And we _can't have that_.

 _No_ , the teacher wanted them to only illustrate difficult to describe emotions. Hope, for example. Sonder. A couple of other words that Keith was 99% sure were all made up.

So not only were they doing something non-technical, they were also doing the most difficult version of that non-technical skill as possible.

But wait.

It gets worse.

Keith sucked at non-technical skills.

Keith had no idea what he wanted to do.

Keith was screwed and may drop out of college and save himself the student loans.

Groaning, Keith violently chucked a balled-up scrap of doodles over his head at the art covered wall his desk was set against. He just couldn't draw emotions well. And he definitely couldn't draw _indescribable_ emotions well.

Keith was good at technical things (spatial reasoning, ratios, proportioning, colour balance, highlighting), but when it got to the other side of art (emotional significance, metaphor, deeper meaning, inspiration, BS like that), he fell a little flat.

Tell him to draw something that will showcase his talent with reflections or double images, and he'll draw a pretty nature scene reflected across a glassy lake, or a towering figure being followed by its own creeping shadow.

Tell him to draw something that will showcase his talent with manipulating space and angles, and he'll draw the head on image of a long and narrowing road lined with skyscrapers, or a simple still life at a strange, unexpected angle.

Tell him to draw something that will showcase his talent with colour and he'll draw his roommate's side of their shared room (bright oranges, clean whites, earthy beiges) being contrasted with his side (soft greys, solid blacks, harsh reds) or he'll draw racks of paints having fallen over to create a huge puddle of colours on the floor.

Those were things he could do. The way he presented his work was often on the cliché side (romantic nature scene in front of a lake to show skill with reflections? A little too literal. Mess of tipped paints to show talent with colour? A bit too obvious.) but he could pull them off nonetheless.

The things he could not do were as follows:

1\. Make a "story" with his art.

Honestly, wasn't it the job of the enjoyers of art to apply their own meaning and understandings to the art they saw? It didn't really matter what the artist's intention was, as long as the art was beautiful enough for someone to care to think about its story

2\. Using emotion in his art.

He wasn't very good at drawing people with different emotions, to start with. But drawing someone sad, drawing a sad art piece and drawing a piece intended to make people sad were all, apparently, completely different things.

This is a very incomplete list, but because _someone_ is blaring Latin pop at _full blast_ , Keith cannot concentrate on labeling his inadequacies in art.

Keith surrendered the charcoal pencil that he had been twirling between his fingers and dropped his face into both hands. Releasing a loud groan, he leaned forward so that his forehead rested against the desk, hands still covering his tired eyes. His eyes burned. And when he closed them for too long, they watered. Also, his temples were aching.

"Hey man, are you okay?" a soft voice eased through the screaming metal music, the pounding Latin pop and the colourful language Keith was stringing together in his head against someone in particular. Keith turned to face his roommate, Hunk, who was standing in the doorway of the room with a concerned expression on his kind, dark face.

"I'm going to kill my soulmate," Keith deadpanned, turning his face back into his hands. He heard Hunk snort and cross the room to drop his bag and heavy kitchen knife kit onto his bed under the window.

"You're so lucky your soulmate doesn't listen to music," Keith added glumly, too lost in his self-thrown pity party to realize how insensitive he was being. He heard a heavy sigh from across the room and felt an icy pang in his chest, his face heating with embarrassment. "Sorry."

"No, no, don't apologize," Hunk muttered casually as he smoothed the already made bed, easing out invisible wrinkles in the handmade quilt. He let out a self-deprecating laugh bubbling out of him. "It must get… irritating, for you."

"No man, I- I'm sorry, I really am. That was a dumb thing to… I didn't mean…" Keith babbled, reaching over to turn down his music. He began to nervously fiddle with a string on his gloves.

Keith was thankful that the fast Spanish song in his brain was turned way down all of the sudden, probably in response to his sudden retreat in the music battle. Keith didn't even have it in him to be triumphant at his success in quieting his soulmate's music. He edged from his side of the room towards Hunk's, stepping onto his roommate's soft cream rug.

"It's okay, I just…" Hunk let out a shuddery breath. "I want to know what she _hears_. What she likes. What she dances to. What she sings to. What she listens to when she's sad, or happy, or nervous. I just want to know. For so long, I thought I didn't have a soulmate… and when I found out she exists, and couldn't find much information on her, I just… I want to know…"

"Look, it… it might not be that she's deaf—" Keith offered tentatively, knowing where his roommate was going with this time-worn conversation. He eased into the upholstered, orange and white chair on Hunk's side of the room.

"What other explanation is there?" Hunk scoffed bitterly. Keith fell silent, feeling like an insensitive jerk.

"Come on, you know what they say! Maybe she doesn't like music, maybe her culture doesn't celebrate music, maybe—"

"They say it's 23% likely to be those kinds of reasons. Because, even if she doesn't like music, or her culture doesn't support it, she's bound to hear something musical at some point. She's bound to find some sound beautiful and relay it to me." Hunk rubbed a hand against the back of his head.

"And everyone knows that the rest of that percentage— it's, what 77%?— is the likelihood that the soulmate that doesn't hear music is deaf." Hunk's eyes widened considerably when he said this and he shook his head, letting out a nervous laugh. "I sound horrible. I sound like the most terrible thing to happen is to have a soulmate that's deaf. It's not that, it's never been _that_."

"I know it's not that, of _course_ it's not that!" Keith agreed adamantly, hating how tortured his friend looked.

Hunk was easily the nicest, most accepting and most generous person that Keith had ever come in contact with. There's no way he could harbor any kind of hatred— or even a dislike— for anyone. Especially if that hatred or dislike was based on a disability or something else that a person couldn't control.

"I just… sometimes, I just…" Hunk looked so bone-tired. He looked weary and stressed. It added a good twenty years to his face, which held bruised and baggy under-eyes and an uncharacteristically turned down mouth. Keith hated himself in that moment.

"Hunk," he said as warmly as he could managed.

He reached over to put his small, gloved hand on one of Hunk's large ones, which were both still fiddling with the white and light beige blanket. "They're making so many advances these days. There's a huge chance that your soulmate will be able to receive the care and the technology she needs to be able to hear again."

"You don't know that. And even if she can get it, it's synthetic. It doesn't bring back hearing all the way and it's not _real_ —"

"But it's a start." Keith interrupted firmly, squeezing his friend's hand. He felt a wave of warmth wash over him as the large hand under his own squeezed back.

"It's a start," Hunk agreed with a watery grin, that slowly melted into a serious expression. "Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"Promise me that, no matter how angry you get at your soulmate, no matter how loud she plays her music— please… Please never regret having her. Never wish her deaf. Never wish she'd stop listening to music."

A grave look like that being on Hunk's normally perky, friendly face got Keith's immediate attention. The artist nodded before verbally swearing to obey the simple request. The pair stood for a few more moments, the feeling of solidarity being enough for now.

 **AN:**

 **Thanks for hanging in there guys, feel free to let me know what you think and how I can make this chapter better! Have a good one!**


	2. Some Luck

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **I know Pidge is a girl. She is girl in this story. She hasn't "come out" so Lance still thinks she's a dude.**

 **Chapter 2: Some Luck**

" _Contigo, mi vida. Quiero vivir la vida_ — _dios mio!_ " Lance sang, breaking off with a shriek as he dropped his phone with a loud clatter. His earbuds ripped painfully out of his ears, joining his fallen phone as the explosive beating of drums and wailing of guitars pierced through his empowering, pre-work musical regimen.

"Oh, my Go— shut up, why are you _so loud?_ " Lance groaned, collecting his phone and earbuds from the sidewalk, examining them for damage. Screwing up his face at the small scratches that marred the phone's screen, he sighed and put his earbuds back in. He held down the volume button until his music was blaring over whatever devil's music his soulmate was listening to.

Lance continued down the street, cheerily singing along to Shakira, pumping himself up for a long night of work ahead. He glanced up to the sky, feeling wet drops beginning to patter down on his face and smiled at the heavy rain clouds. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket.

The metal music got louder. Lance rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the music and not think about his soulmate's hatred of Spanish music. At least he wasn't listening to the traditional stuff. The salsas and tangos never really pumped him up enough to get through night shift.

"Jerk-wad soulmate being racist again?" an irritable voice spoke up.

Lance glanced behind him to see his favourite café customer rapidly typing on a phone.

"She's not racist," Lance defended immediately. He paused, frowning. "I think."

"She's a he," Pidge muttered under his breath, not looking up from the screen that set a creepy glow against his huge, round-rimmed glasses and small face.

"Shut up, Pidge, she's a she," Lance grumbled back as they came up to the café Lance worked at and Pidge frequented. Lance unlocked the door to the café and held it open for his friend.

"Thank you," Pidge said without looking up from the screen and shuffled over to a table that was close to the front counter.

Lance jogged to the back room to grab an apron, ready to start his shift at Midnight Snack, the café that was open through the late hours of the night into early morning. He came back to the front counter to do a quick wipe down of the tables and equipment, double check the cash register, sweep the dining area and complete a few other tasks before opening.

Lance managed to wipe down the table Pidge had plopped down at before the guy covered the surface with work materials. The second the table was wiped down, Pidge used one hand to pull several textbooks, a computer and two iPads from of his bag while the other hand still frantically danced across the keypad of his phone. He arranged the objects on the table before the surface was even dry and began flipping through books and powering up his devices.

Lance shook his head at his overworked friend and threw on the dark green apron, wrapping the strings twice around his waist to tie them in the front. He blinked, suddenly distracted by how loud his music was. Quickly fumbling to turn down the volume on his phone, he frowned and squinted in confusion. His soulmate had suddenly turned his music way down, which was why Lance's own music had suddenly seemed to be roaring.

"What's up?" Pidge asked suddenly. Lance glanced over his shoulder to the teen who was now hunched over his computer and was typing a mile a minute.

"She—"

"He," Pidge corrected, knowing exactly who Lance was talking about.

"Pidge!"

"Sorry."

"She turned her music off."

"Okay, so he— _she_ — is probably leaving her room or trying to sleep, so she turned her music off." Pidge offered a logical explanation, as always.

"But…" Lance bit his lip. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Pidge look up at him and adjust his glasses, looking at him with a calculating stare.

"I don't get it. You hate her music. You _always_ complain about it. Aren't you glad it's not as loud anymore?" Pidge asked with a calculating look, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Well, yeah. But usually she doesn't give in so quickly, you know? Just makes me think… I don't know, just makes me think, is all." Lance muttered, scrubbing at a table with anxious vigour.

Pidge sighed at this and turned back to his computer with a wistful expression. His typing increased both in volume and speed, and he seemed to be glaring at the screen. As Lance was filling the smoothie machine, he heard heavy slam and flinched, turning to see Pidge with his head resting on his now shut computer. Lance started a pot of coffee, grinning when he saw his tense friend relax as the comforting gurgle of brewing coffee and the smell of the roasting beans filled the empty café.

"Pidge, flip the sign," Lance requested, smacking the top of the stuttering smoothie machine.

Pidge let out a dramatic groan before dragging himself out of the chair, tripping over it and letting out a louder groan when said chair thudded to the floor. Lance laughed at his friend and received a rather unfriendly gesture for his reaction. Lance chuckled to himself and returned his attention to the faulty smoothie machine that was now whipping pink liquid into what was about to be a strawberry smoothie for one of his regular customers that always came to the café two minutes after it opened, every night, without fail.

"Aren't you supposed to be doing this? If you keep making me flip the sign, I should be paid for my troubles," Pidge complained as he flipped the "closed" sign to "open."

Lance rolled his eyes and poured half the coffee pot into the largest cup available and set it at Pidge's table.

"I pay you in coffee and friendship," he said with a winning grin.

Pidge screwed up his nose, righted his chair and plopped onto it. He took a huge swig of his black coffee and let out an appreciative sigh.

"Can you pay me in full with just the first method of payment, _por favor_?" Pidge pleaded with fluttering lashes.

Lance snickered, putting a lid on the container of smoothie just as the bell above the front door jingled.

"Welcome, _Bonita_!" Lance crowed with a sparkling grin.

A tall, slim girl with long blonde hair and a simple jean dress waltzed into the room, blushing prettily.

"Evening, Lance," the said in a soft voice, rummaging through a small purse over her shoulder. She pulled out a few bills and handed them over to Lance, stuffing a wad into the glass tip jar.

"The usual, right?" Lance asked, handing the smoothie across the counter before waiting for an answer. The girl smiled apologetically.

"Actually, I'd like to add something onto my tab," she said hesitantly.

"Oh yeah? And who would the addition be for, Li-la?" Lance asked flirtatiously, practically singing the name as he handed her a straw.

Lila tucked a long lock of hair behind her ear, revealing a set of pearl earrings Lance hadn't seen before.

"Um... Lance, I— I know we're really close…" she began, twisting the wrapper of the straw between her fingers. "I really… I really appreciate your friendship and— and—"

"Hey, Babe, sorry I took so long," a tall, broad man that could probably bench-press three Lances said as he came through the door. "I'd probably have been quicker if you didn't hide my wallet, so you could pay for our date. _Again_." The man grinned good naturedly and leaned close to Lila, a hand against her back as he pecked her cheek sweetly.

Lance felt something fall in his chest. He swallowed hard and set the smoothie on the top of the counter, avoiding Lila's gaze, and Pidge's scandalized gasp. Lila blushed deeper under the attention of her… male… person, and leaned her head against the man's chest, which was toned enough to be seen through his tight t-shirt.

"Um, Lance, this— uh, this is my— this is Andrew," Lila introduced awkwardly. She turned to face her… Andrew. "Andrew this is my— Lance. Barista. My barista, Lance."

Andrew seemed to not notice Lila's word tripping and reached across the counter with a huge hand, face warm and friendly. Lance sluggishly reached out for a shake, finding his hand completely engulfed in the giant's grip.

"Nice to finally meet Lila's best friend!" he said kindly. Lance blinked and saw Pidge mouth " _finally?_ " with an astounded face.

"Uh, yeah, it's nice to finally meet Lila's…" Lance cleared his throat. "Boyfriend."

He said this word while looking right at Lila. The girl glanced away so quickly, her hair whipped her boyfriend's face. The couple giggled together over it and Andrew gave Lance his coffee order. As he made the man's latte, Lance made eye conversations with Pidge.

 _Dude, what the heck?_ Pidge's wide eyes and raised brow demanded.

Lance shrugged, offering his own wide-eyed, confused expression.

Pidge made sharp, aborted gestures towards Andrew as if to say _Who is that? What is this? What's going on?_

To this Lance shrugged again. And sighed quietly, feeling extremely exhausted all of the sudden. There weren't many times that he hated being at work or wanted to go home in the middle of a shift. But this was definitely one of those moments.

Pidge shook his head sadly, eyes crinkling with kindness. _Sorry._

Lance shook his head with a sigh and turned back to his coffee machines.

As the pair conversed in code, Lila and Andrew flirted innocently until Lance gently set the latte (tall, skim, hold the _basically everything_ ) and bid the couple a good evening.

"Uh, Honey, do you mind going ahead? I just want to catch up with Lance for a bit." Lila said, much to Lance's disappointment. He really didn't want to socially interact with anything but his couch, a bag of chocolate and his secret stash of rom coms.

"Sure, I'll wait outside," Andrew said understandingly.

The two shared a soft kiss before Andrew gave a farewell nod to Lance who only stared stonily ahead. Once her boyfriend had left, Lila finally made eye contact with Lance.

"I'm sorry," she said. Lance scoffed and looked away, feeling his eyes beginning to burn. "I'm really—"

"Why didn't you say anything?" Lance asked quietly. He fiddled with the hem of his work apron and scraped his teeth against his bottom lip. Lila waited a moment, seeming to be gathering courage to speak.

"I didn't know how—"

"You didn't know how to tell the guy you've been flirting with for almost three months that you got a boyfriend?" Lance bit out, causing Lila to flinch.

Lance backed away from the counter and flitted his gaze to the floor, muttering apologies.

"I'm sorry. You're right, I should've…" Lila babbled earnestly, leaning across the counter. "I should've told you, I'm so sorry, I should've said something… I…" Lance glared through the window at Andrew's back, hands tightly gripping a towel he snagged off the counter.

"How long?" Lance whispered. Lila licked her lips and fiddled with the zipper on her beige purse.

"I, um, it was… it's been a… a month," she admitted, voice, face and body language all brimming with shame and regret.

Lance nodded, letting out a hysterical laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pidge rise slowly from his chair, looking like he was about to either attack Lila or hold Lance back from attacking Andrew.

"Is that all you needed?" Lance asked curtly, beginning to wipe phantom spills from the glass countertop. Lila furrowed her brow in confusion.

"I'm… sorry?"

"Is there anything else you need beside the smoothie and the latte?" Lila still looked confused, but shook her head, hands gripping her smoothie tighter.

"Then thank you for coming, _ma'am_ , enjoy your drink," Lance said flatly, turning around to fiddle with the machines behind him.

"O-okay. Um, bye, Lance," she said hesitantly and a little sadly. Lance didn't respond. He listened for the door to jingle, announcing Lila's departure, before he turned back around.

He felt the warm wetness trailing down his face before he registered that he was crying. He heard quick footsteps and felt a whoosh of air leave him as tightness constricted around his waist. His arms went instinctively to wrap around the impromptu, human belt known as Pidge.

"I'm sorry," Pidge whispered, head buried in Lance's stomach. Lance couldn't help but grin softly at his young friend. He dropped his nose down into soft, chestnut locks as the ache in his chest warmed.

"I thought… I mean, it sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Weirdo barista meets pretty girl in a café, they fall in love and discover that they were soulmates the whole time? It's ridiculous," Lance huffed.

Pidge squeezed tighter around his waist.

 **AN:**

 **The song is Shakira's "Suerte."**

 **Thanks for reading guys, have a good one!**


	3. Hunk Knows Best

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **It's a little short, this go-round. Sorry, guys.**

 **Chapter 3: Hunk Knows Best**

Keith ran his fingers over the textured, blank canvas on the scratched easel before him. His troubled eyes stared at the white fabric gloomily as the hand brushing across the canvas dropped to his lap, fingers now pulling at a fold in his dark skinny jeans. His chin rested heavily on the knee of a drawn-up leg that he held tightly to his chest.

"How's it going?" a warm voice asked, comforting tone laced with humour. Keith sighed as his roommate came into the room with a wooden crate in his arms and a sympathetic grin on his face.

"That well?" Hunk glanced at his stressed friend with concern.

He placed the crate gently at the desk next to Keith. It was full of paints, brushes and other tools Keith had run out of and Hunk volunteered to collect. Amongst the art supplies was a huge red thermos full of Keith's favourite steaming hot coffee.

"I just don't know—" Keith complained in a thin voice, leaning into a comforting pat on the shoulder from Hunk.

"I know, dude, I know. You have no idea what you're doing" Hunk said gently, handing the opened thermos to Keith while squeezing his friend's shoulder.

The tightly wound artist accepted the thermos without looking up from his work— or absence thereof.

"And it's the—"

"The final, I know. Worth 50% of your grade," Hunk interrupted with a soft grin.

He plopped down onto his bed and tipped a partially drunk water bottle into the pot holding a tall, leafy plant. He glanced back at Keith whose brow was furrowed enough to cast shadows over his already dark rimmed eyes.

"So, what do you normally do when you don't have inspiration?" Hunk asked, tossing the now empty water bottle into the trash and grimacing when he missed sorely. The bottle sailed in a graceful arc over an unobservant Keith's head and smacked into the wall.

"I don't know. I never really… I don't know. I've never actually had this problem, you know? I just… sometimes, when I'm not sure what to do, I just try not to think about art and then all of the sudden something will come to me," Keith explained

"A little light and fresh air might do you good," Hunk remarked, pulling the bright yellow curtains of the window above his bed open to let the bright sunshine into the dark room.

He pushed up on the window to get some air circulating into the room and jammed an empty green bottle of olive oil under the window to keep it open. He grinned as the stray cat that he and Keith had accidentally adopted jumped into the sill. Keith squinted at the sudden brightness of the room and grumbled with weak displeasure as the black cat moved from the sill to the desk next to Keith's easel.

"Watch your step, you mangy thing," he demanded with half-hearted venom as the cat twitched its tail at him.

"So, your professor doesn't do anything to help your class brainstorm things to paint when you guys get stuck?" Keith bit his lip and hunched a bit. It was a sign Hunk recognized immediately.

"He gave you guys something to help you out, and you don't want to do it," Hunk guessed. Keith's glare was telling enough. "Well. What is it? Spill."

"He's assigning everyone who needs help coming up with something to paint to another artist. We're supposed to observe them in action and… I don't know, learn how to express emotion through art like they do, or something," Keith said irritably, rolling his eyes.

"Don't you think you should—"

"I don't need help," Keith interrupted stubbornly, finally looking up from the easel. "Especially not from singers and actors and _dancers_."

"Those are the artists you guys get assigned to?"

"They're _performing_ artists." Keith sneered. "It's different."

"Yeah, but the professor clearly thinks they can help you guys out." Hunk attempted to be the voice of reason, as usual when it came to Keith.

"But I—"

"Look, what's more important: turning your nose up at the performing artists and continuing to ignore their existence, or passing this class?" Hunk asked. Keith was quiet for a moment, as if he was honestly wondering if it would be best to just accept a poor overall grade.

"Keith, come on. Just talk to an actor or a dancer. Watch them do their thing. How hard is that?"

"Have you ever met one of those people?" Keith demanded. "They're insufferable! Obnoxious, self-centered, they've got egos that can barely make it through the front door of the fancy little studios they work in! Meanwhile, artists work wherever they can, which is usually their own bedrooms which they don't have the time or money to keep clean or make fancy. And—"

"So you have a grudge against performing artists because they're proud and work in nice places?" Hunk asked incredulously. Keith grimaced.

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds dumb. But it's not," Keith insisted "Have you ever talked to a dancer?"

"My niece dances—"

"Your niece is three, I meant like an actual dancer."

"She is an actual—"

"You know what I mean. Dancers that perform for a career are— _Lion stop it_!" Keith snapped at the black cat that had begun knocking things off Keith's desk. Keith lunged to catch a few stacked mugs that still held the residues of stale coffee.

"Okay, okay, I get it. You don't like performers. But this is your grade we're talking about." Hunk pleaded. "Just give it a try. How about I come with you!" he offered suddenly. Keith cocked his head.

"Why?"

"I don't know. Make things feel a little less hostile? Offer some support when you decided you want to kill your performer?" Keith bit his lip.

"Actually, we're having an extra class this Saturday. Everyone who needs help is going to meet up with their assigned performer to have a few hours to work with them. I just have to email in by Thursday that I'll be going, so the professor can notify performers ahead of time."

"This Saturday? Dang, I'm sorry—"

"I know, I know. It's Abuelita's 92nd, I'm not going to ask you to stay just so I don't have to talk to some obnoxious actor alone," Keith snorted, scooping up Lion and dropping him on the floor.

The cat grumbled and scratched at the already abused easel before stalking towards Hunk's side of the room, seeking the friendlier and cuddlier half of the pair that took care of him.

"Thanks, man. Are you actually going to email your teacher and say you're going?" Hunk asked, impressed with his own ability to get Keith to do something he didn't want to do.

Hunk scooted to one end of his bed and allowed Lion to hop up onto the mattress. The cat curled up in a ball on the bright, warm blanket and settled with a small sigh in a patch of sunshine.

"I have to." Keith sighed as if he carried a burden heavier than the earth itself.

"Okay, drama queen," Hunk chuckled, leaning back against his large collection of throw pillows and cracking open a huge culinary textbook.

He began flipping through the stained pages, grimacing as the remnants of some of his cooking experiments rubbed off the pages and onto his fingers.

"Drama queen, huh? You won't be saying that when you come back on Monday to find the corpse of an intolerable singer on your bed," Keith said sweetly.

Hunk only smiled, glad to have his stressed roommate back into a slightly brighter mood. He turned back to his reading, basking in the comforting sound of Lion purring at the foot of his bed, though was slightly put off by the absence of the soft scratching of pencils and brushes that normally come from Keith's side of the room.

 **AN:**

 **Did you like Keith's absolute hatred for performing artists? Do you smell the foreshadowing? Did you like my dumb name for their cat? If anyone has better ideas for the cat's names, let me know what you think it should be.**

 **Thanks for reading, guys. Feel free to drop a review or a request, until next time!**


	4. Unrest and Clamor

**AN:**

 **HAPPY THANKSGIVING!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **If any of my lovely readers are not thanksgiving celebrators, then I hope you have a good week and stay warm and safe this season!**

 **By the way, for anyone fearing a Pidge/Hunk ship— fear not, it isn't happening. Anyone who was hoping for it, I'm sorry but you're going to be disappointed. I'll do my best to whip up a good relationship between them, but they'll be strictly platonic.**

 **Chapter 4: Unrest and Clamor**

"How long are you going to use me as a pillow?" Lance complained without any real venom. Pidge snuffled, rolling over so he fell across Lance's chest. "Bro, I have to go to work."

Pidge let out a whine of protest. Lance sighed.

"Five more minutes. Then I'm getting up," Lance promised. He grabbed his phone off his elegant bedside table and wrapped his arms around Pidge, so both hands could hold his phone and his arms could rest of his friend's back.

He glanced down the row of notifications, swiping past comments, likes, reblogs, new follows, saves— until his thumb hovered over an email that caught his eye. He squinted, attention snagged by the email's title. "Inspiration for Local College Students Needed," it read. Lance shrugged and clicked on it, skimming past the warm greeting and a perky introduction to the point of the message.

 _As you probably know, local art institutions such as dance academies and art galleries have been working closely with local colleges to inspire and help art students in learning techniques, discovering their passions, and improving their craft. You have been recommended to us by either a teacher or a peer who believes that you will be a good candidate to inspire and nurture students who may be lost or confused in their journey of visual or performing arts._

 _Specific areas a student may need help in include the following: creating art based off moving figures, getting inspiration for the subject of their art, finding a theme for their class projects and assignments, etc. For others, simply getting advice from someone that now practices the art they once studied will confirm for them that they are on the right path, and may ease some concerns they have for their future._

 _All we ask of you is that the assigned student be allowed and encouraged to watch you perform your form of art. In your case, this is the art of dance. We suggest you expect at least three weeks of observation, but we will not ask you to allow the student to view every practice, or the final performance._

 _If you are interested, please respond saying as much and we will give you more details on your assigned student and what to expect during the observations. Remember that you or the student can end these observations at any time. We realize that not every student and inspiration artist is compatible, and that observations can be stressful and awkward for some artists._

Lance's first thought was that this was a weird joke, but the email checked out, when he looked it up on the school's website. He second thought was that he was recommended as a joke, but he couldn't think of anyone who knew him that would go through the effort of recommending him to a school.

And that lead him to his third thought on the email: how in the world was he supposed to inspire an art student? Frowning, Lance tapped his thumb along the edge of his phone and clacked his teeth together rhythmically. It wouldn't really put him out to let a student sit in on his lessons. He was used to having an audience when he practiced anyways, and it would be good to get fresh eyes on his routines. And if it didn't work or if it was weird, he could just email the school and tell them he wanted to quit.

And "inspiring artist" sounded really good. If him dancing could help someone figure out what they wanted to do in art, or if it could help them hone some kind of technique, or whatever— if it could do some good for someone… why not give it a try?

"Might as well," Lance announced, hitting the "reply" button.

"Might as well what?" Pidge mumbled sleepily, nuzzling into Lance's shoulder like a puppy.

Lance grinned without looking away from his screen as he typed a quick response to the email.

"I got an email from that art school near dance asking for my help in inspiring some art student," Lance explained.

Pidge looked up with hazy confusion.

"What?"

"I don't get it, either, but the professor sounds convinced that I can help. And it doesn't really… inconvenience me, you know? It's more of an inconvenience to the student because they have to, you know, schedule time out of their day and come all the way out here."

"The school isn't even five miles away, I wouldn't say that's much of an inconvenience," Pidge countered. "I'd say stranger danger and such, but there's always a million people watching you practice and perform. Plus, all the guards could bench press a car and they all like you, so I think you're safe."

"They're not guards—"

"They wear all black, they stand still for long periods of time, and they have guns. They're guards," Pidge argued. "Bodyguards."

"So, you think I can do it?"

"Sure. But don't go anywhere alone with this… student. You never can be too safe," Pidge warned. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you why," he added in a softer tone.

"I'll be careful," Lance said. "Hey, I have to get up, it's been over five minutes."

Pidge groaned, but dutifully rolled off his friend.

Lance sent a quick email to the professor to confirm that he'd be willing to help and stood to get dressed for work. He tossed his pajama shorts in Pidge's face, grinning as his friend threw a few colourful words back in response.

He hopped on one leg as he pulled on his black dress pants, shimmying into them while Pidge helped by packing his black purse for him. He tucked a white collared shirt in and wrestled into the sharp vest that Pidge claimed made him look "dapper," before tying his matching tie with nimble fingers.

"Hair time," Pidge announced, opening the bottle of fruity scented hair gel while Lance plopped on the bed to put on his shoes, allowing his friend to apply the gel with expertise.

"No one would believe that you do my hair," Lance said. "Considering the rat's nest on your head, I'd agree, if you didn't help me almost every day."

Pidge repeated his words in a mocking tone, tugging on his friend's hair in retaliation.

"Have fun," Pidge said, flopping back onto the bed and burrowing into the thick duvet when he was done teasing and primping Lance's hair. "Good luck with the peanut gallery."

Lance waved over his shoulder as he exited his room. He made quick work of getting downstairs and out on the porch in time for his ride to show up.

"Beep, beep, motherfu—" a gravelly, male voice shouted from the car that pulled up to the curb.

" _Language_!" a female voice scolded.

Lance looked up to see his older brother, Marco, in the driver seat and leaning across Veronica in the passenger seat to yell through the window.

"Good morning!" Lance grinned cheerily, waving at his fighting siblings. "Glad to see you two are getting along as usual."

"Look out, Lancey, Vera's in a bit of a mood today. I think she's on her perio— ow!" Marco's exaggerated whispers were cut off by a sharp jab to the solar plexus from Veronica's pointy elbow. She smiled welcomingly at Lance, who slid into the back seat.

Lance chuckled at his siblings' antics from the back seat as the car took off, bound to pick up the next sibling. Luis worked only a few blocks away from Lance's house, but the ride was kept wild and interesting by the bickering of Marco and Vera in the front.

When they pulled up to the massive, glass building that Luis worked in, they found their brother sitting on a bench outside with his phone in hand and an earpiece in his ear. He seemed to be speaking almost as fast as he was typing in his phone.

"Lu!" Lance shouted from the backseat as he rolled the window down.

Luis held up a hand in the universal sign for "stop" or "wait." Lance continued to call for his brother anyways.

"Come on, bro, get in the car! We miss you!"

"Hurry up, Four-Eyes, we're gonna be late!" Marco called much more gratingly from the driver's seat.

Luis sighed visibly and heaved himself up off the bench, as if it took a herculean amount of effort. Lance opened the side door and bit his lip when he heard Luis' conversation as the brother came closer.

"Sorry, Gina, I have to go. My obnoxious brothers are screaming, even though they can see that I'm clearly on the phone," Luis was complaining.

"Yeah, no, don't worry, those papers will be on your desk by ten tonight. Yeah, I promise. And please tell Georgia to get on that report for the MacMillan house. I know she's been putting it off and we need to get that thing on the market as _soon_ as possible. Yeah. Thanks. Bye."

And with that, an extremely exasperated Luis slid into the car beside Lance, who was careful to give Luis space.

"Luis, stop being an—" Marco broke off with a squeal when he received a pinch from Vera for his impending crude language.

"What he means, Luis," Vera said, turning to her second youngest brother, "is that we're very happy to see you and we're glad that you finally agreed to carpool with us."

"Against my better judgement," Luis muttered under his breath, but not quite quiet enough for Lance to miss.

Marco huffed under his breath as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"It's especially great," Vera continued, not having heard Luis' snide comment, "because, you know, we haven't seen you since… what, last Christmas?"

"Here we go," Lance muttered, slouching in his seat.

"Some of us have very busy, very important jobs that they can't always get away from because they've worked up the ranks to a very busy, very important position," Luis said in an overly bright voice without looking up from his phone.

"You could at least pretend to be happy to see us," Marco said added with false nonchalance, glancing up to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Luis' moody expression.

"I was in the middle of a phone call, and you were screaming at me and honking the horn. It's very unprofessional and distracting to have that kind of noise on my end of the call. I have a lot to do today, and not even half the time I need to get it done with, so pardon me for being a bit on edge—"

"You're always on edge," Marco snorted

"And you're always busy," Lance added softly.

"I took off work for Christmas, do you know what a sacrifice that was?" Luis argued.

"You didn't 'take off work.' You brought your work with you. And where were you for Easter and Thanksgiving, huh? Or our past three, four birthdays? You missed some important milestones; like Marco's 21st, Lance's 16th, my 18th and you're probably going to miss Lance's 18th next summer and—" Vera was interrupted by a small explosion from Luis and Lance slunk lower in his seat.

"My God, I explained why I had to miss those days! I was traveling for business for most of those, and Thanksgiving and my sibling's birthdays aren't exactly worldwide celebrations so it's to be expected that I might have to go to meetings on those days—"

"Maybe it's because you have three freaking jobs—" Marco interrupted.

"I need three jobs!" Luis countered.

"Yeah, to pay for your girlfriend's shopping sprees," Marco scoffed. "She still wasting away your money?"

"Don't talk about her like that," Luis demanded, leaning forward in his seat.

Vera groaned, and Lance squeezed his hands into fists, heart thumping madly. He hated fights.

"Maybe you should consider asking her to get a job," Vera suggested for the hundredth time this month.

"She's sensitive and gets sick easily. I don't want to put that kind of stress on her," Luis said as Marco pulled up to the entrance of the Italian restaurant Lance worked at.

Lance never thought he'd be so happy to see the classy stone building with its high windows and higher arches. He quickly unbuckled his seat belt and pushed the door open, pausing before he got out.

"I'm going now…" Lance said hesitantly with a hand on the back of Marco's seat and his legs hanging out of the car, waiting for a "goodbye."

"Seriously, Luis, relationships are about support. It has to go both ways. Which means that you have to give it, but you're also obligated to _receive_ it," Vera said wisely, dark eyes glittering sharply.

"She does support me! Financial support isn't the only way to sup—"

"We know that, but if only one part of the couple is earning money and the other is draining—"

"She's not draining anything—"

"I'm just going to go now…" Lance trailed off awkwardly as he slipped out of the car.

"I mean, Christ, Luis, you're running yourself ragged trying to take care of her!" Marco was practically shouting now and actually slammed his palms against the steering wheel, causing Lance to jump again.

Family gatherings— even if the gathering only took place for a few minutes in a car— were always like that. Shouting, chattering, arguing, loud voices, louder passion— Lance always felt a little lost in the middle of everything. He usually matched the noise and energy of his relatives, but somedays he just wanted some peace and quiet.

Lance shook his head, closed the car door, and jogged up to restaurant entrance. He slipped in, going completely unnoticed in the hubbub and buzz of lunch prep. The wine deliverer and the bar tender were arguing over a case of red basically in the doorway, the manager was fighting with the head chef only a few feet away over something about meat sauces and a gaggle of waiters were chattering loudly as they set silverware out on the tables.

Rolling his eyes, Lance danced through the crowd and punched in for his shift before he got caught in the crossfire of routine restaurant drama. He grabbed his black apron and wrapped the strings a few times around his waist to keep the fabric from slipping. He fumbled with the strings behind his back until warm fingers intercepted.

"I've got you," came a warm voice that sent tingles down Lance's spine.

"Thanks, Jas," Lance said quietly to the co-bartender when his apron was secured.

He grabbed his notepad and pen, stuffing them in the front pocket of the apron and stood at the podium to watch the squabbling that went on around him until it was time to open for lunch.

"People who say silence is loud don't know what the hell they're talking about," Jasper said with a grin, leaning across the podium so close that Lance could smell the Axe rolling off of him.

"I'd love for some silence," Lance sighed almost desperately. Jasper set a warm hand on Lance's small shoulder.

"You and me both, kid. You and me both."

 **AN:**

 **I loved writing Lance's siblings and their fun (and less-than fun) interactions! I have a sibling, so I think I got the squabbling and tough love thing right, but if you guys have any tips or notice anything that sounds weird, let me know.**

 **Thanks for reading guys!**


	5. Reluctant Surprise

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Chapter 5: Reluctant Surprise**

"I don't want to."

"Do it."

"No."

"You should."

"I never said I shouldn't."

"Come on, you know it'll be good for—"

"If you say that it'll be good for me, I will murder you."

"Keith, come on!" Hunk sighed exasperatedly through the phone, slouching in his seat on the train that rumbled soothingly down the tracks.

He was well on his way home to meet his family and celebrate his grandmother's birthday, and had been spending the entire trip trying to convince Keith to meet the performer his teacher assigned him to.

"I don't need some dancer to inspire me or whatever," Keith huffed moodily.

"Don't you think your teacher probably knows best? Seeming as he's been teaching and painting for longer than you've been alive?"

"I'm just not feeling it today," Keith said, curling up with Lion, who purred softly on his stomach.

"It doesn't matter if you're feeling it or not. Go. For my sake," Hunk pleaded.

"Your sake?"

"Yeah, because when you end up failing this course because you didn't go meet the person you were assigned to, you're going to complain to me for days on end and you'll cry and whine and—"

"Okay, okay, I get it." Keith grumbled. "And I don't cry. Or whine."

"Sure, you don't," Hunk said fondly. "Now are you going? Your meeting is in, like, ten minutes, right?"

Keith whined in response and kicked the wall above his head in response to his nameless neighbor's knocking on their shared wall, probably because of Keith's loud phone conversation.

"I'll go," Keith said. " But I'll hate every moment."

"I wouldn't expect anything different."

"Shut up."

"Don't give me attitude, or I won't bring any of my Grandma's cookies back for you."

"Hey," Keith said, sitting up so suddenly that Lion rolled off his stomach and onto his lap. "Don't joke about that."

"Who said I was joking?" Hunk said, voice smiling.

"Hunk, oh Hunk, light of my life, sun to my sky, gem of my—"

"Okay, okay, enough!" Hunk laughed into his hand, blushing. "Get up and get dressed. I know you're on my bed and still in your P.J.'s."

Keith glanced down at the sweats he'd worn to bed that he was still currently wearing, and to the bed he was sitting on. The bedspread was a quilt of sunny oranges and soft creams, not bright reds and greys. He blinked, not remembering when he had crawled out of his own bed and made his way into Hunk's.

"No, I'm not," Keith said, voice sounding defensive even to his own ears.

"Yes, you are."

"Sorry."

"You know that I don't care if you borrow my bed. Just don't get food or paint on it."

Keith blushed, feeling like a five-year-old caught cuddling in his older brother's bed while said sibling was away.

"Yeah, um, I'm gonna let you go so I can get ready, I guess."

"I'm proud of you, dude," Hunk said warmly.

Keith felt some of the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen after he ended the call.

"Well, Lion, I guess I'd better get going," Keith muttered, shoving the cat off his body. The little monster didn't even respond and allowed himself to roll to the side and get lost in the blankets on the bed.

Keith rummaged through his closet, grabbing the closest dark jeans and t-shirt he could reach, and throwing his red jacket on over it. Stepping into his boots, he tossed jars of paint, bundles of paintbrushes and a book of thick mixed media paper in his bag that sat on his desk chair. He threw the ratty bag over his shoulder, mindful of the delicate patches that had been handstitched on.

Warning Lion to stay out of trouble, Keith grabbed his phone and keys before beginning to make his way out of the dorm. He turned down the hall, nodding towards perky neighbors that swung close to say hello but otherwise avoided interacting with anyone.

After almost being knocked down the stairs by half the football team, Keith finally made it to the front door, which was wide open so the stoners could blaze in the doorway. Ducking under a cloud of smoke from a thickly rolled blunt pinched between the fingers of a droopy-eyed student, Keith quickly crossed the grass that was still wet from the melted morning frost.

"Keith!" a familiar voice called.

Keith tightened his jaw before turning around to see his red-haired art teacher waving wildly at him across campus. He was running with a thick stack of papers in one arm and bag advertising a local co-op hanging off the opposite shoulder.

"Are you going to meet your inspiration artist?" the teacher asked, pausing to lean against a tree to catch his breath.

"Yes I'm going right now," Keith said with a sigh.

"Good luck and try to have fun with it!" the teacher said between gasps for breath. "You know, my grandad used to say that—"

"Yes, sir, I know, and I'll try to… have fun," Keith grimaced and continued on the way he was walking. That was when he saw the bright blue roof of the bus he needed to get on pulling away.

Keith swore colourfully as he raced towards the bus stop. He raced right up to the door and banged on it, matching the bus's pace as best he could until the driver, an elderly woman in a lavender blouse, shot a surprised glance to the door.

"Sorry, kiddo," she said with a crackling voice when she opened the door for Keith to get on.

"No problem," Keith gasped out.

He showed the bus driver his student ID, which allowed a free roundtrip to a few places near the schoole, like his destination: downtown.

Keith slipped all the way to the back and found an empty seat, which he dropped into and allowed his bag to fill the empty adjoining seat. He pulled out his phone and quickly selected the best music for the ride. It was loud and fast and full of bass and heavy rhythms. He rested his head against the rattling window, peering through the smudges on the glass to watch the city flicker past. He watched his breath make soft misty patterns on the window, waiting for Latin music to mix its brightness with his heavy music.

"I will kill her," Lance said with a murderous grin.

Pidge snorted, mumbling something that sounded like "not a her" under his breath. Lance smacked him on the head in response.

"What a way to treat the guy walking you to work," Pidge complained with a pout.

"I love you, Pidge," Lance said with a grin, throwing an arm around his friend to pull him into a tight hug.

"Yeah, yeah, get off me, you brute," he spat without venom.

The two continued to bicker as they made their way down cracked sidewalks and around graffiti covered buildings. Vehicles rushed past, sending blasts of bright headlights and frigid morning air at the two. Pidge shivered and sniffled quietly.

"Mind if I watch your practice?" Pidge asked unnecessarily as he did every time he wanted to sit in on a practice.

"I said 'yes' the other day, didn't I?" Lance asked.

Pidge nodded cautiously.

"And I said 'yes' the day before, right?"

Pidge nodded again, rolling his eyes as he saw where this was going.

"So, I think it's safe to assume that I'm going to say 'yes' again, right? So how about you do as I suggested the first time you asked: just show up whenever. You don't have to keep asking. You're always welcome."

Pidge wrinkled as his nose at Lance's words and stepped a bit closer to his friend, keeping his head down. Lance smiled sadly, throwing his arm back around the smaller boy as they both cringed from another gust of chilling wind. The silent thanks hung in the air, embraced by a warm welcome.

"Hey, you're being scouted today, right?" Pidge spoke up after the soft moment passed.

"Ugh, don't remind me," Lance muttered, dropping his head on his friend's shoulder as they waited for the crossing light to blink at them. "That's much later today, thankfully."

"Come on, you'll do great! Where are they from?"

"I don't even know. Some from here, some from Boston, I think one is from London or something—"

"Dang," Pidge whistled appreciatively.

"Yeah, no pressure, or anything. And what's worse is that some of the dancers are upset with me. I mean, I get it. I might catch a good break with the scouts and people have a right to be jealous, but…" Lance shrugged as the pair joined the flock that began stampeding across the street.

"What is it?"

"It's just that, I want to stay here. I just have no idea where I'm going. Like, with my life, you know? Dancing is just a hobby that I get paid for. I love doing it and the pay is good, but… I don't know," Lance admitted heavily.

"That's okay, isn't it?" Pidge asked. "I mean, you're young, so no one is expecting you to know what you're going to be doing ten years from now. Maybe just stay here until you get things sorted out and figure out what you want?"

"You just want me to stay because you'll miss me," Lance said with a grin.

"Shut up, Boston isn't that far away. And besides, most of the scouts are from New York, right? So most likely, if you do sign or whatever you it's called, you'll do it here," Pidge said.

It sounded practiced. It also sounded like he was trying to convince himself, more than Lance.

"Hey," Lance said, grabbing Pidge's shoulder to get his attention.

When Pidge's big eyes were looking up at him, he continued.

"I'm not leaving you, okay? I like it here. Plus, all my family is here. That includes you, by the way." He elbowed Pidge in the side, making his old friend laugh before throwing an arm around Lance's back.

They finally came to the studio, a huge brick building with arching windows and bright studio lights that allowed pedestrians to watch the dancers from outside. The pair looked up, waving at some friends before going in.

"Good morning, Lauren!" Lance greeted the young brunette at the desk.

The receptionist gave him a bright smile, a single dimple showing in her left cheek.

"Morning, you too, Lance," Lauren said before turning to one of the many computers that surrounded her. "How are you? You have those scouts coming today, right?"

"Yeah, I'm super excited! I'll totally blow them away with my charm and my smooth moves," Lance said proudly, demonstrating by doing a few quick steps and turns.

"Well, don't you sound confident as usual! Good luck, dear, not that you need it."

"Thanks Lauren! Come on, Pidgey, I need to get changed," Lance said, dragging Pidge by the hand through the high-ceilinged room.

Pidge looked up at him worriedly, Lance's brave smile long gone.

Lance went for his locker and began pulling out his practice outfit, which was a bit revealing but allowed for the most movement and flexibility. He filled his bag with water bottles and dance shoes for the many different styles of dance he took lessons in from the academy.

"All ready," Lance called to Pidge, who was waiting outside the locker room.

"I thought you got lost in there," Pidge quipped when Lance came back into the hall.

`Lance snorted and hip-checked his tiny friend into the wall.

"Jeezus, sorry, I didn't mean to— ohmigod _your face_!" Lance wheezed out between bouts of laughter when he saw the glare Pidge was fixing him with and the dark spot on the wall where Pidge's laptop bag had collided with it.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You won't be laughing next time when you actually butt me out the window."

"Hey, that was an accident and there was a fire escape, so even if you did go out the window, you'd have been fine," Lance defended.

Pidge mocked him in a high-pitched voice, only to be smacked on the head by Lance.

"I can kick you out of here, you know," he threatened.

Pidge smiled winningly as the two stepped into the large, open room where Lance normally practiced. The walls were bare brick where the huge mirrors and windows weren't reaching the towering ceiling, and the floor was made of worn hardwood.

Off to one side sat a crowd of onlookers who had come to see Lance perform for any number of reasons. Sometimes, teachers would make their students analyze other students' technique, sometimes students came to watch to improve their own styles, and others just came to enjoy the show.

Lance grinned and waved at his audience.

"Morning, everyone, thanks for coming!" he said warmly, dropping his bag off on the edge of the room.

He kicked off his shoes and did a few quick stretches to warm up to run through a few lyrical numbers until Allura arrived for their pointe duet. As he lowered carefully into a split, he noticed a face in the crowd that was unfamiliar to him.

A boy in mostly black sat off to the side, clearly cutting himself out from the audience. He had what looked like a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in his hand. He definitely looked like he didn't want to be in the dance studio.

"Oh, crap. I totally forgot about that," Lance muttered.

"Forgot about what?" Pidge questioned from the sidelines where he was moving Lance's carelessly thrown bag further out of the way of the dance floor.

"Oh, just this art student I'm supposed to be helping. He has to sit in on some of my practices," Lance said, waving at the irritable artist.

The guy didn't even acknowledge his greeting. Lance figured he'd just catch the guy after practice.

"What are you practicing today?" a sultry voice called out from the crowd. The owner of the voice was a blonde dancer who was a year or two older than Lance.

"Let's do my guilty pleasure, _Unsteady_ ," Lance offered with a grin.

There was an appreciative response from the audience and a bit of an applause, which visibly startled the moody artist in the corner. Lance concealed his laugh as a cough behind his fist and asked someone to put the music in.

"The cover I use is in my bag," he added.

The young student who had volunteered to get his music ready made quick work of finding the CD and popped it into the player. She began fiddling with the dials on the complex stereo system until she let out an 'aha!' and scuttled back to her seat.

Soon a steady beat of clapping and thudding from the song filled the room. Lance walked slowly around the room, occasionally jerking a part of his body to the beat. On the second clap, he jerked his hip. On the second loop of the repetitive beat, he tossed his head to the side on the last thudding beat. He did this as he made his way around the room until he was at the back of the room, facing the window with his audience watching him from behind.

Once the lyrics started up, Lance lurched into action. The word "hold" was practically begged in the singer's voice and Lance mirrored this by hunching over and squeezing his arms around himself. On the second "hold," he dropped to the floor on one knee and on the third he fell to his side. At the words "on to me" he jerked himself up into the air and into a beautiful leap where he wobbled and then crumbled to the floor at the word "unsteady."

He continued through the song, keeping a pained and pleading expression on his face and keeping his movements sharp when needed, and fluid when needed. By the end of the song, adrenaline pumped steadily through his system. Dancing was the biggest thrill and it always left him breathless.

He glanced up to his enthusiastic audience, who was clapping and whistling appreciatively. Lance curtsied gracefully and held a hand to his chest to calm his racing heart. No matter how many times he performed a routine, a positive reaction was always a welcomed surprise and left him feeling a touch embarrassed.

Scanning the crowd, Lance locked eyes briefly with the artist and was surprised at the shock written across the boy's face. His eyes were wide open, and his mouth gaped a little like he'd been thoroughly surprised. Lance grinned weakly, wondering if he had offended the guy or something. His practice outfit _did_ leave little to the imagination…

When the guy started slowly clapping, still seeming to be in shock, Lance felt something warm settle in his stomach. Today was going to be a good day.


	6. We Can't be Perfect at Everything

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **I feel like this title and mindset might be helpful to some of you who have started the new semester last/this month/soon. You can only do your best guys, and no one expects that to be perfect. All you can do is study and ask for help and practice. If you still don't get the grades you're hoping for, then try to be satisfied in knowing that you did everything you could. It's easier said than done, but I'm rooting for you!**

 **Happy thoughts and positive vibes!**

 **Chapter 6: We Can't be Perfect at Everything**

His pencil had clattered to the ground somewhere in the first ten seconds of the practice and along with it went his focus on the task at hand. Instead of reluctantly drawing the dancer his micromanaging professor assigned him to, Keith had somehow become hypnotized by the movements and expressions that currently held the attention and breath of every onlooker in the room.

Keith's back was pressed against the cold mirror facing the rest of the audience that sat on a small set of wooden bleachers a few feet away. His legs were almost curled to his chest with just enough space to hold his sketchbook on his lap in an angle that wouldn't allow any curious eyes to land on any sketches he had made so far. He felt himself leaning forwards and away from the chilled mirror behind him, the book sliding, forgotten, onto the worn floor.

"Dang," the performer said breathlessly, his hands on his hips and his face a healthy flushed pink. "Looks like I need a little practice on that one," he said bashfully but with a brilliant grin.

Keith, master of emotional control, saw the lingering frustration and disappointment in those dark eyes. This was obviously someone who was used to playing things up as positive for a crowd. Keith frowned.

A loud roar ripped through the room, causing Keith to flinch before he realized it was applause and whistles of appreciation. Still a bit dazed by the sudden and loud sounds, Keith managed to bring his hands together to join in, not taking his eyes off the dancer for a second.

Keith admitted he had a few expectations of how his experience with the dancer would be. He assumed the dancer was going to be a bubbly, energetic, ditzy girl. He planned to stay quiet, for the most part, and do what it was he came here to do: draw the dancer and figure out what his crack headed art teacher meant by painting with _emotion_ and _expression_ and _soul_. He figured the dancer would be an egotistical airhead with more self-confidence than actual talent, so he wanted to spend as little time with her as possible.

And then he saw the actual dancer. And he took Keith's breath _away_. There was something about him that was… kind of weird. He was talented, obviously. And fairly good looking with a heaping portion of charm and people skills, but it was more than that. It was more than good dancing and a pretty smile. There was something about _how_ he moved. Keith wasn't at all sure what it was, but it was unbelievable.

As the applause dulled back down, Keith began running colours, mediums and techniques through his head, dazzling and confusing himself in his efforts to recreate what he had seen, to know how to capture… whatever it was that made the dancer move that way. He was partial to paints but wondered if charcoals might capture motion in a simpler way that highlights the subject, instead of drawing away attention with things like colour and light. Then again, he could use simple greys if he chose to paint. But then the brightness of his eyes and face would be lost to viewers…

Trapped, as he often was, in his own mind, Keith completely missed the dancer's attempts to get his attention.

"Dude, are you ignoring me?" a voice shattered Keith's concentration and effectively drew him out of his reverie.

Keith looked up to see the dancer leaning over him so their faces were mere inches apart.

"Hey, personal space," Keith mumbled, forcing his expression into a grouchy scowl.

If the dancer was at all offended by Keith's tone or words, he didn't show it. His grin seemed to, if anything, get even brighter as held his hand out.

"You must be the art student. Name's Lance, nice to meet you!" he said.

Keith hesitantly reached his hand out, only to have it engulfed by a much warmer, sweatier one that was callous free and smooth.

"I'm Keith," Keith said coolly.

Lance looked a little confused by Keith's attitude, but his friendly grin remained.

"So, what's this art project about, anyways? Your teacher only said that you needed help with something about emotions in art, which I guess would be kind of difficult. I mean how do you paint something to give someone an emotion? In, like, dancing it's easy, but art? Man, that's gotta be tough—"

"I'm sorry, is there a point to this?" Keith interrupted.

Lance blinked, seeming to be frozen where he stood in front of a still seated Keith. Behind them, the crowd talked loudly amongst themselves and danced across the room with much less power, technique, talent and without that _thing_ Lance did with his dancing.

"Oh, you're a 'strictly business' kinda guy," Lance recovered quickly with another winning smile. "Okay, I guess all I have to know is… how long are you going to be watching my practices and… could you, like, smile or something?"

Keith was taken aback by the bluntness of the last question.

"Uh, I-I only have to keep coming until I figure out how to paint emotion or whatever," Keith said flippantly. "Shouldn't be more than a few practices."

"And the smiling? Think we can make that happen?" Lance asked not unkindly.

"Is that a requirement for people to see your practices? They all have to be happy-go-lucky airheads, like you?" Keith blurted out defensively.

Surprisingly, Lance didn't look to offended, only taken aback. For a second he even looked pensive, as if he was gauging the airheadedness of the people around him. Or he was considering making it a requirement.

"Don't talk about Lance like that," came a loud, firm voice.

Keith glanced up to find the brunet dancer with the swoopy hair that had asked what Lance was going to perform at the beginning of the practice. The man crossed his toned arms, obviously flexing them, and stood at Lance's side like a guard dog.

"Yeah, you're a guest here. You don't have a right to criticize any of us," another member of the audience piped up from the bleachers.

"Though I'm sure we can all agree that Lance is happy-go-lucky and kind of an airhead!" a white-haired girl said laughingly as she entered the room.

"Guys, calm down, it's fine," Lance said in a voice that clearly sounded _not_ fine. "Hey, Allura, good timing!" he exclaimed, gesturing for the girl, who had bright pink tattoos framing blue eyes, to join in on the conversation.

"This is Keith, he's an art student that's going to be watching my practices. I hope you don't mind if he sits in on our duets." Lance grinned at her in a way that told Keith he wasn't used to people saying no to him.

"Not at all, it'd be great to get a second pair of eyes on our performances. I'm sure you'll appreciate it for your solo. I know you've been stressed about it," Allura said, gently patting Lance's shoulder in a very maternal way.

"Yeah, um, Keith, this is Allura. She's my partner in the next dance we're going to practice."

Keith watched Allura set her bag down next to Lance's and move to the center of the room, stretching her arms as the dance floor cleared and onlookers moved back to the bleachers.

"Come on, man, move. It's fine, just let him be," Keith overheard Lance saying quietly while his focus was distracted by Allura.

Keith glanced back to Lance, finding the dancer facing away from him and towards the guy that was still standing like a bouncer. The bouncer guy continued to glare at Keith, who was plucking nervously at his jacket.

"Stop it," Lance hissed at the bouncer guy, shoulders squared.

The man and Lance held each other's sharp gazes for a moment before the man finally looked down to the ground.

"Thank you," Lance said as he moved to the center of the room with Allura.

Keith watched Lance with a bit of awe, wondering why he had just been protected by someone he may have just offended not two minutes ago. Lance was saying something to Allura when he glanced around the room and, as if by accident, caught Keith's eye. Keith was about to look away, feeling a heat spread across his face, until Lance gave him a quick wink.

Not knowing what else to do, Keith looked away and he rolled his eyes, watching Lance's face fall in the mirror. Lance shrugged, as if to himself, and turned to face Allura, bright grin back in place as if by practice. He spoke animatedly with Allura while the woman fiddled with the swathy fabrics draped artfully around her body.

The two parted after Allura patted Lance on the shoulder and the dancer lit up like it was Christmas. Keith rubbed his suddenly aching chest distractedly, watching as the pair began walking backwards while facing each other. The music starred, a dramatic violin that sang and danced, whispered and floated through the room. It was one of those wordless songs that said more than any lyric could. It was clearly about love.

Keith watched the pair walk in lazy circles, throwing shy glances at each other and fiddling with their clothes or hair. They shifted into their characters so effortlessly, Keith didn't even realize they had. Allura did a simple twirl, her long hair loosing from its updo and shimmering down her back. Lance did a gentle leap and spin in the air before landing lightly, barely making a sound as he arched his body sensually. Lance glanced over to Keith and did some kind of body roll that made Keith very uncomfortable. The artist swallowed, looking away quickly to distract himself with picking up his fallen sketchbook and pencil.

When he gathered the courage to cast a glance back at Lance, Keith found the dancer gliding across the room with Allura in his arms. Keith stroked his pencil across the paper in his hands as he tried to illustrate the way Lance's body curved when he spun across the room with Allura.

Allura spun around, hands going to clasp Lance's in the air above their heads. They play-fought, pushing back and forth on each other's hands with fierce grins until they both turned around, so their backs were together, hands still held above their heads. They broke apart and wove in and out together around the room as the audience watched in awe.

When the music finally came to a stop, Lance was posed arching over Allura as he held her in a dip. The two breathed heavily, grinning at each other until they startled apart when the audience surged to their feet in an enthusiastic applause. Lance threw his arms out, gesturing to Allura as if to say "ta-da!" and she curtsied elegantly before offering Lance the same gesture, at which he blinked with wide doe-eyes before grinning and bowing in response.

Keith quickly darted his gaze back down to his sketchpad, where he made quick notes about the dancers' movements and how best to capture them with the stroke of a pencil. He avoided anyone's eye— Lance's especially— with a carefully trained look of concentration. He kept this façade up until his light was swallowed by a shadow. Looking up, he found Lance staring down at him.

"So? What did you think?" the dancer inquired expectantly.

Keith quickly looked away from that charismatic smirk before it got him in trouble, and he busied himself with shuffling through his sketches.

"Hm? Oh, yes, you were very… good. I got a lot from this practice. Honestly, it's probably more than I need and—"

"Let me see."

Keith looked up, startled by the sudden interruption.

"Sorry?" he asked lamely.

Lance settled gracefully on the floor next to Keith, long legs stretched out against the wooden floor.

"Show me what you've got. I don't know anything about art, but I know a thing or two about expression. I might have some insight," Lance said casually with a shrug.

Keith clenched his book tighter and shied minutely away from Lance. He wasn't one for showing off his work before it was ready.

"What makes you think—" Keith started hotly before he was interrupted again.

"I promise I won't make fun of it," Lance said seriously.

Keith finally met his eye and found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the soft honey-browns and smile lines. Without taking his eyes off Lance, Keith slowly handed over his book.

Lance lit up, but it was a warmer, less fierce brightening than he had done for his crowd. He flipped carefully through the sketches, making sounds of appreciation and amazement, not unsimilar to the ones the audience watching his dances made. Keith blushed and fidgeted, forcing himself to look away.

"These are pretty incredible. You did all these today?" Lance sounded impressed. "We've only been here for, like, thirty minutes. Tops."

Keith shrugged, a little confused as to why primary sketches were so fascinating to Lance.

"They're pretty crude, basic sketches. Nothing special."

"'Crude, basic sketches' my sore foot," Lance scoffed.

Keith snorted.

"How come you didn't draw my face in any of these?"

"Uh... I'm no good at faces," Keith said quickly, fingering the edge of his jacket. "It takes a while to get them right so I usually skip them when I can."

Lance bumped his shoulder in a friendly way.

"Maybe that's because you aren't drawing faces. You gotta practice, my dude," Lance said, an odd sort-of wisdom sparkling in his eyes.

"It… it's not just that. I'm just... not good at expression. Whether it's on a face or like emotions that I'm supposed to make people feel from what I make. I just don't get it, I guess," Keith said frustratedly, looking down at the holes in his jeans. He felt Lance's eyes on him.

"Well, we can't be perfect at everything, can we?" Lance announced, holding the sketchbook back out to Keith.

Keith blinked, offering a shaky smile and reached out to accept his book. Before he could take it, though, it was roughly snatched from Lance's grip. Lance, having tightened his grip when he realized the wrong person was taking the book, pitched forwards as the book was tugged from his grasp, and Keith had to grab the back of his top to keep him from falling on his face. Lance put a hand on Keith's now very warm elbow, as if in thanks, but kept his eyes trained on the sketchbook thief.

"Give it back," Lance demanded sharply.

The tone in the room, which had been lively and buzzing with energy from the dancers that had started practicing and mimicking Lance's and Allura's duet, dipped into a quietly hostile energy.

"I just want to look, Lancey, it's fine," the bouncer-like dancer from earlier said innocently, flipping roughly through Keith's sketchbook.

Keith snarled and surged upwards, reaching for his sketches. The dancer, being much quicker and more graceful than Keith, skirted out of the artist's reach.

"James. Stop it," Lance hissed sharply. "Leave him alone, he's not bothering anyone."

"I just want to check out what he's been drawing. To see what all that time staring at you has gotten him," James claimed, eyeing the pictures as Keith clumsily tried to chase after him.

Lance followed them, trying to get close to James without running into Keith who fumbled in unpredictable circles around the bully holding his notebook in the air.

"Aw, aren't these cute? He really captures your figure in this one," James sneered, opening the book wide and holding it above his head so the room could see. He flipped back a few pages, malicious grin still in place.

"Seriously, Griffin, this isn't funny—"

"Aw, did you draw your boyfriend?" James asked in a falsely pitying voice as he turned the book around to show an image of a faceless man in a uniform.

The man had an undercut with a mess of hair that fell across his forehead and his arms were out like he was reaching for a hug. Keith saw red. He barreled into the dancer and the two thudded to the ground, grappling for the book.

The sketchbook suddenly disappeared, and the pair paused their scuffle. Standing above them was Lance who had the sketchbook in his arms and tucked close to his chest as if he was trying to protect it. To Keith's relief, the book had been closed and the sketch was no longer visible to the audience that hung along the edges of the room to keep out of the crossfire.

Lance grabbed Keith's arm and hauled him off the floor with a surprising strength that had Keith stumbling into the dancer's side. Lance threw an arm around Keith's shoulders to steady him and pushed the notebook into his arms, whispering a heartfelt apology in Keith's ear.

"I'm really sorry about him. Sorry I couldn't stop him."

Keith felt something warm rise in his chest as his trembling hands closed eagerly around his sketchbook. Lance guided Keith away from the center of the room and back to their corner between the bleachers and the mirror-covered wall. He pulled Keith into a sitting position at his side, arm never retracting until Keith, feeling slightly claustrophobic from all the attention and contact, shrugged away from the touch.

"Th-thank… you," he said quietly so only Lance could hear and the audience that drew closer and closer to them couldn't.

"Sure. I think you should come back tomorrow," Lance said with big eyes. "I think… I think you need some more help with that 'drawing emotions' thing."

Keith sighed with little actual resignation.

"I think you're right," he said. "We can't be perfect at everything."

"No. we can't," Lance agreed solemnly.


	7. A Scene Shift

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **A bit on the shorter side, this time.**

 **Also 42nd st is mentioned in here, it's an actually studio and it's beautiful and I want to live there.**

 **Chapter 7: A Scene Shift**

Lance was practicing a combination of moves involving a dramatically slow illusion leading into a series of rapid pique turns when his concentration was shattered by Lauren, the coordinator and secretary of the studio.

"Lance, are you going to be done soon? This room has a booking that starts in five minutes," the dark-haired woman said with a gentle smile.

"You got it, boss-lady. 211 is open, right?" he asked, carefully extending a cramping leg up onto the ballet barre that was fixed on the wall.

Lauren opened her mouth to respond but was cut off when one of the many little devices hooked into her belt started ringing.

"Hold that thought, Lance," she said before chirping in an overly friendly voice into the phone. "Hello, this is— yes, sir, I remember you— I'm very sorry sir, but— yes, I understand, but if you haven't done your application and your audition did not pass— I apologize, but there is no other way— no, I realize that but— yes, I'll put my boss on the phone. Please hold." Lauren gave Lance an exhausted look.

"Sorry about that. Work never rests," she said, adjusting her thick framed glasses. She tapped her iPad a few times, bringing up the schedule for each of the available practice rooms and stages. "To answer your question, yes, 211 is open until 5. After that, 130 is open until 7, maybe a little later. Jack's got that room."

"Awesome! Thanks, beautiful," Lance grinned as Lauren backed out of the room.

"Okay, guys," Lance clapped his hands together as he turned to face his crowd. "Looks like we're taking a break and moving this to 211. After that, we'll be in 130, but we may have to wait a bit for that room. Jack's practices always run over."

The crowd responded immediately, and the dancers began to grab their bags, shoes and anything else they brought with them.

"Running over," Allura snorted, brushing past Lance. "Like _you_ should be talking."

"Allura, I'm hurt," Lance pouted, hand against his chest. "How could you suggest that I am anything but the poster child of punctuality and time management or that—"

"Save it, you dork, the only poster child you are is of vanity."

"You wound me so," Lance said, pretending to swoon into the arms of Pidge, who had sidled up out of nowhere to the pair as the crowd swarmed out of the room.

"Lance, what are you doing?" Pidge complained exasperatedly over Lance's antics as he stumbled under the weight of his much taller friend.

"I'm dying. Allura broke my heart," Lance said in a staged whisper out of the corner of his mouth.

"Always the drama queen, aren't you?" Allura said flatly, clearly unimpressed.

"It _was_ my nickname in high school," he winked cheekily.

Allura rolled her eyes, promising to be back the next day for their next practice as she exited the room. Lance quickly packed his bag as the audience began filing out of the room, chattering loudly and prancing amongst themselves as they made their way down the hall. As he swung his purse over his shoulder, Lance glanced around the room until his eyes landed on what he was searching for: Keith.

When he first saw the artist at the beginning of practice, Lance thought that this "Lance-shadowing" thing wasn't going to work out. Keith seemed moody and kept trying to hide behind his long hair, which hung in silky curtains around his angular face. He was tense and curled into himself, refusing to sit anywhere close to the other dancers sitting in the bleachers. The guy clearly carried some kind of grudge against dancers, or maybe just people in general, so Lance suspected Keith wasn't going to be the funnest guy to work with. But then the notebook incident happened.

Ever since that sketchbook had been taken from him, Keith hadn't stopped holding it like a child hugging a treasured toy or blanket. The sheer panic and rage the artist displayed when that idiot took his sketchbook was surprising, but after seeing that drawing of the man in the uniform, Lance felt he understood. This wasn't just a moody guy with too much hate for the world and a desperate need for anger management classes. This was a guy who was grieving.

"Why are you changing rooms?"

Lance snapped back to the present to find Keith looking rather small and standing near him with his notebook clutched to his chest. Lance bit back a soft smile.

"W-we can only rent out a room for a couple of hours, the max for solos and duets is six. My time for this room is about up, so we're moving to another one." Lance answered.

"Why don't they let you rent out rooms for longer?" Keith asked conversationally as Lance guided him to the door.

"Our larger groups need more practice time than solos and duets, so they get ten hours max a day. There's, like, thirty larger groups? There's a lot and only so many hours in a day, so solos and duets limit practice a bit to give them more time. Six hours isn't enough to cover the number of solos and duets I have, so I room-hop a couple times a day."

"Hey guys—"

Lance jumped a mile in the air, heartbeat racing as he turned to see Pidge suddenly at his side.

"Jeezus—" Lance shrieked.

"You mistake me for my son," Pidge said blankly.

Keith snorted.

"Yeah, yeah, you're _so_ funny," Lance rolled his eyes. "Keith, this is Pidge, my best friend—"

"Better not let Allura hear you say that," Pidge taunted with a devilish grin.

"Shut it, she's my best girlfriend. You my best boyfriend," Lance said, throwing a friendly punch at Pidge's shoulder. Pidge dodged easily and hid behind a confused Keith.

"Boyfriend? But she's—"

"Not actual boyfriend," Pidge spoke up quickly. "Lance may be gayer than a rainbow—"

"I'm bi—" Lance corrected.

"— but I'm straighter than a rod."

"Maybe a bendy rod—" Lance sniggered.

"Shut _up_ , Lance. Don't assume my sexuality."

"Like you didn't assume mine?" Lance shot back without any fire.

"Touché."

"I'm sorry about him, Keith, did you have any other questions?" Lance asked, turning back to Keith.

"Just a couple. So… Are you in any group performances?"

Lance was surprised that Keith was interested, but assumed it had to do with his assignment.

"Thankfully, I only have two, for now. Actually," Lance said, leaning back against the wall with a smug grin, "for one of them, I practice down the street at 42nd St. Studios—"

"Show off," Pidge muttered as the dancer preened.

Keith smiled faintly.

"You won't be able to sit in on those practices, but you should totally check out my home practice. There's a lot of us, so it gets pretty wild," Lance said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows.

Keith made a slightly horrified face, and he blushed.

"I think you embarrassed him," Pidge piped up again.

"Sorry, I've been known to have that effect on people— ow!" Lance jerked back as Pidge slugged him in the arm. "What was that for?" he asked, nursing the wounded appendage.

"My question!" Keith blurted out before Pidge started in on Lance again. "My question is how long do you practice a day?"

Lance must have made a strange face because Keith rushed to explain.

"It's just— the other dancers made it sound like you practice for hours on end. If it's true that you practice a lot, then our schedules are more likely to match up."

"Of course, it's true. I practice, like, eight hours a day. Or something like that." Lance said squinting as he tried to roughly average how long he spent practicing. Each day's length really depended on a lot of factors.

"'Something like that,' or are you exaggerating?" Keith asked, sounding suspicious.

"I'm not exaggerating," Lance said firmly.

One of the most annoying things a dancer could be told (besides that dance isn't a sport— which it totally is) is that they don't practice as hard or as long as they do and should. Keith raised his hands in surrender at Lance's sharp tone.

"Wait, don't you go to school or have a job or something?"

"I do have a few jobs."

"And school?"

"I don't go." Not since he was sixteen.

"Wait, this isn't a dance school?" was Keith's responding question.

Pidge laughed so hard at Keith's scandalized tone that he startled the artist.

"Nope, this is a professional dance company. It's a job. I see why you'd think it's a school, though. We're always learning. Improving," Lance said as he stepped ahead of Keith to hold the door to 211 open for him.

Pidge scuttled into the room ahead of Keith, who stood in the hall looking a bit confused.

"You don't remember…" Keith trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I said earlier that I can't stay for all your practices today. My classes start in an hour, so I have to head back."

Lance felt his posture wilt.

"Oh… Oh, I mean, yeah, of course," Lance spluttered. "Right, um, I wanted to talk over some small details with you before you left. Do you have time?"

Keith glanced down quickly to a black athletic watch on his slim wrist.

"Yeah, the bus doesn't get here for another fifteen minutes, at least."

"Good, good, uh, first, I noticed that you didn't sit on the bleachers with the other people watching. If crowds are a problem for you, feel free to sit in on my private practices," Lance offered, smirking as he leaned against the doorway confidently.

"I— you'd do that?" Keith asked, completely ignoring Lance's flirty behaviour.

Lance was beginning to find it endearing.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I figured it might make you feel a bit more… comfortable," Lance said. "The more comfortable you are, the more you get from each practice. The more you get from a practice, the sooner you can be done with your assignment, right?"

"Yeah, that's— yeah, exactly," Keith said, looking away. "Uh, when are your private practices?"

"Different times every day. I'm sure you've noticed I don't really _do_ schedules. I go with the flow, if you know what I mean." Lance smiled winningly.

Keith rolled his eyes in response.

"Here, how about we trade numbers and I text you when I'm planning private practices for the day. I can try to match your schedule. Do you have any days you don't have classes?" Lance offered, rummaging through his bag for his phone

"No weekend classes and from eleven to one I don't have any, either. My night classes end at 7 and I only have two: one on Monday, one on Wednesday." Lance pondered for a minute.

"Okay, I work early mornings, and lunch every day, and I work almost all day on the weekends. I have most nights free for practicing every day, but sometimes I pick up extra shifts. I think we'll be able to work something out," Lance said, relieved that their schedules weren't completely opposite.

Keith handed a phone with in a bulky black case, strictly for protection and practicality. Lance accepted it, grinning as he pulled his own phone out of his back pocket and surrendered it. Keith made a face at Lance's case as he accepted it. Lance laughed at his discomfort. His phone case was a well-loved gag gift from Pidge, glittery and bright blue with a dangling charm of a blushy ballet slipper. It never failed to earn him some weird looks when he used it in public.

"So, thanks for letting me shadow you, I guess," Keith said awkwardly as they returned eachothers' phones.

"No problem. I'll text you early tomorrow when my private practices that day are. So you know in advance."

"I appreciate that."

They stood silently in the hall for a minute.

"Lance, hurry up!" a dancer shouted from the room.

"Uh, that's my queue," Lance said, edging into the room.

"Right, well, I'll see you around." Keith turned to leave.

"You too, be safe," Lance called out by habit.

He flushed red when Keith glanced over his shoulder with surprised written all over his face. It was almost as bad as saying "I love you" to a complete stranger at the end of a phone call. But this was real and in person. Lance

"Uh, yeah. Thanks, be safe," came the awkward but sincere response.

Lance blushed even harder with the return of the sentiment as he watched Keith walk down the hall and away from him. Saying "be safe" was something he had gotten into a habit of doing when he was young and he used the phrase with his siblings but it wasn't something anyone really responded to or said back. That, and he refrained from using it with anyone in public, even keeping it from Pidge.

Shaking it off as a symptom of a busy, draining day, Lance propped the door open and walked into the room with a big grin plastered onto his face.


	8. Sunsets, Tunnels and Emojis

**AN:**

 **Looking back, I should've done a special early post like this for all the other holidays instead of just honouring Christmas but… I'm a bad person so…. I didn't**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Chapter 8: Sunsets, Tunnels and Emojis**

"Sooo," Hunk drawled out. He was lying on his front on his bed, Lion sitting on his back. Keith had resumed his usual position: in front of a blank canvas with a paintbrush in hand.

"I don't know… it was…" Keith shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't know. It just _was_." Hunk groaned at this.

"Come on, I heard first hand how stressed out you were about meeting this dance guy. You've got to have more than ' _it just_ was.'" Keith threw his head back, staring up at the ceiling as he mouthed a few colourful phrases. "I saw that."

"I don't know what you want from me. I went to the dance place, I watched Lance do his thing, I got his number and I left."

"Woah, woah, woah!" Hunk bolted up right, hopeful grin stretching across his face as the cat yowled at the sudden disturbance to her resting place. "You got his— Lion, _shush_ — you got his number?"

"It wasn't like that!" Keith exclaimed, voice pitching up half an octave. He whirled to face his friend, bits of paint flicking off his brush and spattering across the wooden floor. "Look, we have to stay in contact, so I know when his private practices are—"

" _Private_ practi—"

"Hunk!" the chef in question threw his hands up in surrender, doing a poor job at containing his grin. "His public practices are too crowded and distracting, so we decided I'll be going to his private ones," Keith explained, turning back to his canvas.

"Uh-huh, right, so did you learn anything?" Hunk subtly shifted the topic. Keith's shoulders slumped, an obvious sign of defeat. Hunk sat up straighter, scooting to the edge of his bed.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking for," Keith admitted quietly. "But… but I _felt_ something." He said it so softly, Hunk almost missed it.

"What do you mean?"

"I felt… when Lance was dancing, it was like…" Keith huffed.

"Felt like…? Like annoyed? Cuz, you know, you hate dancers?" Hunk suggested.

"No, no, nothing like that. It was like I couldn't take my eyes off him. I mean, he's clearly talented but— but it was more than that. You know?"

"Like… your heart sped up? And you felt all warm and tingly?" Hunk asked casually as elation welled in his chest.

"Hunk, I know you think I'm emotionally constipated, or whatever, but I actually do understand human emotions. You're describing sexual or romantic attraction."

"Okay, anyone who describes the butterflies and the warm fuzzies as 'sexual or romantic attraction' is clearly emotionally constipated." This earned Hunk a sharp glare to which he snorted at in response.

" _Look_ ," Keith bit out. "I've just never seen dancers perform before. The girl he was with was pretty impressive, too."

"Oh yeah? Sure, so, tell me: what colour was this girl wearing?" Hunk asked lightly, leaning back against the wall behind his bed.

"Uh… she had a dress…" Keith mumbled, wracking his brains to remember the colour of it,

"Okay, what colour was _Lance_ wearing?"

"The tank top was blue, and his little shorts were grey," Keith answered automatically, if not a bit suspiciously. "What are you getting at?"

"You remember what Lance was wearing— down to his 'little' shorts. But not the pretty dress the nice girl was wearing," Hunk said as if it was obvious.

"Okay, I see what you're getting at, but—"

"Lance and Ke-eith sittin' in a tree! K-I-S-S— ow!" Hunk failed to dodge a flying paintbrush launched by an agitated Keith.

"There's nothing between us. He's just some pansy dancer I have to shadow until I achieve enlightenment," Keith spat out aggressively. Hunk ignored the sharp words.

"Dude, you know it's okay, right? If you—"

"Well, I don't." Keith said sharply, pulling out another paintbrush and dipping it carefully into the blob of blue paint on his colour-stained palette.

"Okay, okay. Before you bite my head off," Hunk said as he got on his knees and reached up to the shelves that sat above his bed. He reached passed old novels, potted plants, and CDs of classical music towards the mountain of Tupperware containers full of baked goods. "Grandma made you some stuff."

Keith's attention was immediately redirected from irritability towards Hunk to anticipation towards his surrogate grandmother's baking. Hunk handed a container full of cookies, muffins, breads and other homemade goodies to his friend and watched as the boy eagerly dug into the gift. He smiled sadly as the pale boy bit into a banana muffin, eyes closed in pure bliss.

"I love Grandma Talia's baking," the artist raved with a mouth full of muffin. Hunk couldn't help but feel a small stab of guilt. Keith had virtually no family after his dad died about six years after Keith's mother left. Hunk had a shockingly large family that, at times, felt almost _too_ big. Hunk managed to console himself with the fact that, after two years of rooming together, Keith had quickly become a member of his family. Grandma Talia and Hunk's mother and sister had taken it upon themselves to feed Keith at every chance they had. And if Keith couldn't make it home to them, they sent as much food as they could.

"She was going on and on about you, you know," Hunk commented. Keith looked up, pausing his feast. "She was saying what an amazing artist you are and how you're so passionate and 'morally sound.' Oh, and she demands another painting."

"She demands, does she?" Keith grinned, relaxing back into his seat with his Tupperware.

"You know how old ladies are. They aren't afraid to ask for things, and they always get what they want." Keith turned his gaze back to the canvas.

"Maybe it'll get my mind off of things. I can focus on something else— something that I know I can do well— and, maybe when I'm done, I'll have an idea for how to… 'paint emotion.'"

"You're gonna figure it out. I know you. You can do this." Hunk said as honestly and supportively as he could. Keith didn't respond, but nodded, throwing the red and white striped muffin cup away in their shared metal trashcan.

Keith set his container of baked goods on his bed and turned back to his blank work. He fingered the rough texture, mind already throwing paint and lines and images across the fabric in his head. He picked up a new brush and dipped it into a bright, fiery red.

"I'm going to do a sunset she once told be about when she was a kid and still lived in Samoa. She said she lived on the island of Savai'i…" Hunk listened as Keith retold Grandma Talia's stories of Savai'i. the work, the food, the people, the celebrations, the customs, the religion— Hunk's family had grown up being taught these things, but Keith had only recently been introduced to the rich culture.

Keith absorbed every story and detail Grandma shared about her home. Like a little kid wanting to please and impress, Keith reshared the things he learned about Samoa whenever the subject was brought up. He especially enjoyed retelling everything he knew to Hunk, who listened intently, though he'd grown up with the stories.

Hunk watched warmly as his friend stroked the brush across the canvas with a care and gentleness that most people would be surprised to see from the hot-headed troublemaker. Keith chattered on as Lion purred quietly in a beam of moonlight on the soft blankets of Hunk's bed.

"When I meet my soulmate, I will kill him." Keith said suddenly, only minutes later.

"Wha— huh? What'd she do now?"

"She's watching the same vine on loop, so our connection picks up on it as music." Hunk snorted, coughing into the crook of his elbow to mask the sound.

"You and she really do make a pair, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure," Keith muttered darkly, blending a myriad of reds, yellows, oranges and pinks across his painting. He paused suddenly.

"What's your question?" Hunk asked, knowing the look on Keith's face.

"How close to shore do the coconut trees grow?"

"They're pretty close. Close enough that their seeds can drop into the water."

"Thanks, that helps."

"Are you… are you looking for her?" Hunk asked with a falsely casual tone. Keith caught on to it immediately.

"No." he said simply. "No."

"Leaving it up to chance, huh? Romantic."

"Well, I also don't know where to look," Keith added, curving his brush over the outline of a wild wave crashing onto his shadowy shore in front of the sunset.

"Well, you know she's Latina."

"And annoying. And rude. And selfish and the opposite of thoughtful. Thoughtless, I guess. Inconsiderate." Keith glanced up to his friend. "What about you? Still radio silence?" Hunk nodded with a meek smile.

"I just wish…" Hunk shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh. "Anyways, how are you doing in psych? I'm seriously struggling to keep all those symptoms and statistics straight. I still don't know the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath."

"Seriously?" Keith asked, surprised. "We covered that on day two or three." Hunk threw his arms up.

"So, I'm stupid. Sue me." He said with bitter grin. Keith looked at him, unimpressed.

"Shut up, you idiot. You're not stupid." Hunk fiddled with the ends of his hair, smiling at the ground at Keith's tough love. "I can help you study, if you need it."

"That would be great, I'm hoping to actually pass this class, you know. Thanks for being willing." Hunk said with a sunny grin. Keith felt his insides warm, glad to have helped. "Anyways, it's like 12:30, so I'm going to bed. I have an eight o'clock tomorrow," Hunk said, wriggling until he was under the stack of quilts on his bed.

"Okay, okay, I can take a hint," Keith said, scooping a couple dry brushes and bottles of paint into his backpack. "I'll be in the tunnel."

Keith threw his jacket on as he stepped into his shoes. The artist stuffed a few flashlights into his bag, threw it over his shoulder and picked up the easel: painting and all. He flicked off the light before leaving, casting a glance over his shoulder to Hunk, who was already asleep in the soft, warm glow of the fairy lights strung across the walls.

He closed the door quietly and quickly made his way down the hall, dodging drunk students with messy hair and rumpled clothes and all-nighters with owlish eyes and too-tall stacks of books in their arms. He made his way down the stairs, holding onto the glistening, wooden banister to keep his balance. He was jostled into the wall by a herd of football players and had to pause to straighten a crooked photograph of the dorm taken several years ago. The building was an old Victorian house that had been donated to the school by the family that lived in it previously after they moved away.

Once he made it to the first floor, Keith found himself tiptoeing through the foyer as if around a laser maze. The entrance room was full of shoes: sparkly heels, dark wedges, faded boots, torn sneakers, aged converse, stained sandals. They had been kicked aside by the drunken inhabitants of the building, along with jackets and purses that were on hooks, chairs, and the floor. Finally reaching the door, Keith pushed the creaky thing open and found that the wrap-around porch was just as crowded with drunk college students as the interior was. The swinging benches hanging from the roof by chains and the old white rocking chairs were all full of couples making out and sipping from dark bottles.

Keith shook his head in mild disgust, turning down a few suggestive propositions and offers of suspicious smelling cups of liquid. When he was successfully off the porch and stood on the brick walking path, he breathed a sigh of relief. He may love the school, but he hated the excessive partying and wished Hunk luck with sleeping through the noise of others' nighttime adventures.

The tunnel wasn't very far from Keith's dorm, but it still made for a good walk through the fresh air and dim lighting of the night. Night was Keith's favourite time. Everything was so much stiller and quieter than it was during the day. Daytime was loud and bustling and busy. Nighttime was relaxed and slow and soothing.

The tunnel was under a wide footbridge that arched over a narrow stream that was lined with tall grasses and delicate flowers. The tunnel's interior was covered in graffiti, but Keith had never seen anyone in the tunnel or walking near it. It was a secret safe haven that Keith hadn't even told Hunk about. One of the artist's favourite things to do was come to this place and paint. Painting in front of others or with others watching was stressful and distracting but painting alone in the quiet of a tunnel at night with a million flashlights set up for light was about as stress free as it could get.

Keith carefully made his way down the small hill that lead down to the banks of the thin stream and ducked under the tunnel. He splashed through the shallow standing water under the bridge and set is easel down in the stream, adjusting the legs so the painting could stand as high above the water as possible. Dropping his bag on the bench-like ledge of concrete that ran along the tunnel's wall, Keith began setting up flashlights on the bench, leaning against the wall and sitting on his bag so they aimed at his painting and got to work finishing the outline of the ocean and trees that obscured part of the sunset from view.

After what felt like hours of painting, Keith rubbed at his aching eyes with the heels of his palms, the only part of his hands that weren't yet covered with paint. Setting his brush on the palette that was covered with a rainbow of colours, Keith backed up until the backs of his legs bumped into the bench. He plopped down on the hard ledge, staring at his painting and feeling a bit breathless as if he'd run a mile, not painted a sunset. Deciding to take a little break, he leaned back against the wall, wincing as some dust fluttered down onto his face.

* * *

A sudden shrill beep jerked Keith awake. Glancing around with confusion while rubbing his tired eyes in an attempt to clear his blurry vision, the artist began recalling memories of where he was and why he was there. He reached blindly for his phone after realizing that the beep had been his phone notifying him of a new message. He lazily brushed his unruly hair out of his eyes and squinted at the bright screen of his phone. The clock on its face read 3:30 am.

"What the— whose texting me at three in the morning?" he mumbled to himself in a croaky voice. He unlocked his phone with clumsy fingers and straightened from his slumped posture on the concrete ledge next to his backpack. The palette of paint and paintbrushes almost slid off his in his lap causing his heart to lurch and spike in rhythm as he caught the objects before they splashed into the water. While the stream would most definitely hurt the quality of the palette and brushes, Keith was a little more concerned about what large quantities of acrylic paint would do to the water and the plants and animals it fed.

"Lance texted me?" he slurred sleepily as he turned his now very alert attention back to his phone to scan the short message. The text reminded Keith of Lance in every way. Its very shortened words and perky and positive tone spoke loudly of Lance.

 **Lance** : p 2p 2nite, c u there, gnite _! (sent: 3:30 am)_

The message was followed by a series of smiley faces and firework emojis. Keith dropped his forehead in his hand. Other than "c u there," Keith couldn't decipher much of the text. Feeling a bit disgruntled and irritated over being woken up so early (despite the fact that he should probably thank Lance for waking him up so that he didn't end up sleeping all night outside), Keith texted back.

 **Me** : didn't get any of that _(sent: 3:31 am)_

 **Lance** : oh right, forgot I was talking to the college guy! Let me use your language. The private practice will begin at approximately 2 in the afternoon this very day of Tuesday. I hope to see you there and I bid you a good night. _(sent 3:31 am)_

Keith rolled his eyes and responded, finding himself to be a bit slower at typing than the dancer he was conversing with. He wondered if it was Lance's solid hand-eye coordination and popularity (and therefore need to respond to a constant stream of texts) that made him faster, and that Keith's own quick reflexes were not that useful in texting.

 **Me** : Thanks wise guy. but why'd you have to text so early ( _sent: 3:33 am)_

 **Lance** : You're up aren't you? no better time than the present _(sent: 3:33 am)_

The message was followed by the emoji of a wrapped box with a bow. The corner of Keith's lips quirked up and he shook his head as he responded.

 **Me** : I can think of a lot better times _(sent: 3:34 am)_

 **Lance** : I have work early. don't have a break so I needed to text while I could. guess I could've texted you at 2p when p starts. Will remember for next time. _(sent: 3:35 am)_

This time Lance hadn't left any emojis or exclamation points. Contrary to popular belief, Keith was actually pretty observant of others' behaviour and tried to be considerate of it whenever he remembered to be. This was especially true when the person he was observing wore their heart on their sleeve like a certain dancer Keith had recently met. A bit of guilt settled in his stomach.

 **Me** : don't worry about it. Why are you up so late if you have work in the morning _(sent: 3:35 am)_

 **Lance** : …work already started. my shift is 10p to like 10a depending _(sent: 3:35 am)_

Keith cocked his head at the message beaming up at him. So, this guy had night shift. But he also had lunch shift somewhere else. And then he danced all through the afternoon until late at night. When did this guy sleep? Keith typed out the question about sleep and stared at it before sending it, dragging a hand down his weary face. He quickly deleted the slightly invasive question and typed a new one. It wasn't his business what Lance did with his time, and it wasn't like he really cared either.

 **Me** : cool I'm turning in for the night _(sent: 3:37 am)_

 **Lance** : sweet dreams! _(Sent: 3:37 am)_

Keith grinned at the sleeping moon emojis and little 'z's that followed the kind message. He wasn't used to texts that were 1 part words and 2 parts emojis. In fact, he wasn't used to emojis being included in texts at all due to the fact that the few people he texted were serious and no-nonsense types, or were just too busy or lazy to type the cute little images into their messages. Keith had to admit, emojis were growing on him. Snapping out of his thoughts, Keith quickly sent a response back to the dancer.

 **Me** : have a good shift _(sent: 3:39 am)_

Keith yawned into his fist and stretched his arms above his head, trying to get some energy back into himself. He packed his bag with the flash lights and unused brushes before placing the messy palette and stained brushes into a plastic bag to protect the interior of his backpack from the paint. He quickly took a picture of his partially finished Savai'i sunset, sent it to Hunk's mother to make sure the image would be something Grandma Talia would enjoy, and shrunk the easel back down, so it would be easier to carry. He carefully wadded through the chilling water, making his way back to the dorm.

The building was much quieter, the only signs of life on either of the two levels of the building coming only from the study rooms and the kitchen where all nighters frantically made their way through old texts, extensive research projects and improbable mathematic sequences. Keith quickly got to his room, set his things down in a messy pile in the middle of the floor, plugged in his phone and fell asleep fully clothed on top of the faded blankets on his bed to the sound of his phone pinging again.

 **AN:**

 **I do not belong to the Samoan community, but Hunk does, so I tried to work a few cultural elements in. Because, in the show, Keith battles with finding out his race and handles people's racism and so on, so I wanted to show him being culturally sensitive (is that a thing? It sounds like a thing). If anyone sees a mistake or would like to share their knowledge of the Samoan people, let me know!**

 **I hope you guys liked this one, have a good week!**


	9. To Pick a Brother and a Fight

**AN:**

 **Got some lovely, supportive and positive reviews— thanks for your kind words!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **I think I speak for all of us in saying that we can relate to at least one negative thing about the Lance, his family, and their dynamic in this story. I hope this story gives you a bit of comfort if you're dealing with any of those things and, remember, you're all welcome in my corner.**

 **Let's begin!**

 **Chapter 9: To Pick a Brother and a Fight**

"Jeezus, kid, cut it out," an irritated Luis muttered without looking up from the screen of his phone.

Luis was most likely referring to Lance's bouncing leg, fidgeting hands and clown-sized smile. Lance ignored his well-dressed brother, mostly because the older man was pressed against the window in the back of Marco's car so that he could be as far away from Lance as possible. Anyone with that much distaste for Lance could shove it.

"Seriously, what's wrong with you?" Luis demanded again. "Are you high or something?"

Not even Luis' barbs could stab hole into the happy floating boat of Lance's good day.

The previous night, Lance had been texting an unsurprisingly reluctant Keith, and their conversation had shocking results. Mr. Emo Artist texted the image of a beautifully painted tropical sunset to Lance. Along with the picture, he typed "rough, not done yet. what do you think," which implies that the painting was done by Keith himself. Immediately Lance had texted back, his signature run-on sentences overflowing with praise.

Because Keith was so closed off when they met, Lance never expected anything like this. Sharing art was very intimate. The work of any kind of artist bared their soul, making them completely vulnerable, taking down every wall they built up against the world. The fact that Keith had chosen to share this kind of thing, to bare himself, to lower his walls for _Lance_ …

Lance was absolutely, 100% giddy and elated and overjoyed and full of boundless energy. Whenever he thought about that painting, a thrill zinged through his chest (not dissimilar to the thrill that comes from being startled by a loud sound like a gunshot, but Lance figured this was unrelated). He was bursting with pride, wanting to show off the art with his coworkers, bosses, friends, fam— on second thought, not his family. Definitely not.

They would give him that disappointed look. And they'd pull lines from the Bible to use against him because that's obviously what a religious book whose main rule is to love others is meant to be used for. And he wouldn't budge, he wouldn't even call out how wrong their assumption was, and he would be asked to leave.

No one in his family was a part of the LGBT+ crew, nor (to their knowledge) had they even _met_ a gay person. His family came from a long line of well-practiced Catholics and Lance was absolutely certain that his family would choose prejudice over him. But the real problem was that if he turned out gay, he'd be ridiculed, disowned, and his family's love for him would be taken back. He'd come to term with this a while ago, but it wasn't a problem because Lance wasn't gay.

Lance quickly snapped back to the present and pulled his black Michael Kors purse over his shoulder, shoving the car door open before the vehicle even came to a complete stop. He hopped out with a quick goodbye to his siblings and raced into the elegant restaurant for his lunch shift, phone already in hand and unlocked.

"Jas! Caroline! Everybody! Come look, come look!" He exclaimed breathlessly as he raced into the lobby. His pattern towards the chic bar was erratic and anyone that found themselves in his path quickly removed themselves from it.

"What's up, Sugar?" Caroline, a pretty blonde with a raspy voice, said from where she sat taking stock of the countless bottles behind the mahogany bar.

"Hey, Carol, where's Jas?" Lance asked as a couple of his coworkers crowded behind him, gathering to find out what the excitement was about.

Jas suddenly popped out from the door of the kitchen that lead into the bar.

"I heard my name spoken with the heavenly, dulcet tones of Lance McClain," he said wildly, pretending to be scanning the room in a panic. When his wide eyes landed on Lance, Jas charged at the boy, swooping him up in his arms and spinning.

"Down, Jas, let the boy speak," Rosa, the longest standing waitress, called.

Jas complied with a theatrical sigh and gently set Lance on his feet, arm still across the boy's shoulders.

"So, what's the upset, Kiddo?" Jas asked curiously, rubbing his knuckles against Lance's scalp.

"Ow, Jas, stop!" Lance complained, batting at his coworker's hand. "Look at this, guys!" He said to the crowd, sliding out of the bartender's grip to share the painting.

" _Dios mio_ , who sent that, and does he have a brother?" Rosa asked. "Or a sister, or—"

"We get it Rose," Caroline interrupted laughingly. "You're a thirsty ho—"

"Woah, innocent ears!" Jas exclaimed, clapping his hands over Lance's ears.

"Innocent nothing, that boy's _Cubano_. He was born for love!" Rosa scoffed.

Jas muttered something that sounded like "it's not _love_ you're talking about."

"God, Rosa, some of the things that come out of your mouth…" Jenna, the dish washer, said with an embarrassed giggle.

Rosa winked flirtatiously, making the poor girl blush.

"It's from this artist guy that goes to that fancy art university," Lance interrupted his coworkers' banter. "He shadowed one of my practices, so he can get inspiration or whatever for his project. Look what he typed— he says it's 'rough' and 'unfinished!'"

"Rough? That's a work of art, if I've ever seen one," Jenna said.

"And we all know, you've seen one," Rosa said with a smirk, striking a model's pose.

Jenna hid her face in her hands as Rosa and Caroline cackled. The crew fawned over the painting for a few more minutes until they were forced back to their stations by the manager who had been attracted by their noise.

"So, who's this _artist_ guy?" Jas asked curiously when everyone dispersed to their stations. He leaned on the bar with his arms crossed.

"A friend, I guess. I don't know him very well, but he seems nice enough. If not a bit moody and pessimistic," Lance said without looking up from the picture.

"So, the opposite of you: the happy-go-lucky, ray of sunshine." Jas teased. Lance grinned softly.

"Thanks, I guess. But, really, he's a good guy."

"How can you tell? You only met him once," Jas said, squinting at Lance.

The dancer pursed his lips, not liking how suspicious Jas sounded.

Jas was kind of like Lance's more attentive, more caring older brother, but he knew Lance wasn't helpless. He differed from Lance's blood siblings because if Lance showed the slightest sign of discomfort or need for help, Jas stepped in immediately to offer his fist or shoulder, whichever was needed most. That being said, it was unlike him to be overly suspicious and concerned. Lance tried to brush it off but found it sticking uncomfortably in his mind.

"Something… happened," Lance said, thinking back to the notebook incident.

Jas stood up straighter.

"What happened? Did he say something?" Jas slid across the room towards Lance. "Did he hurt you?"

Lance blinked as Jas began patting down his body, searching for any sign of pain or injury.

"Jas, Jas, I'm fine." Lance said, finding himself going unheard. "Nothing happened. It wasn't like last ti— _Jas_!" Lance raised his voice when Jas still didn't notice him speaking.

The bartender immediately froze.

"I… I'm sorry, Kid," Jas said, arms going around Lance's body. Lance let out a sigh through his nose, leaning into the warm hug.

"It's okay. You were just trying to help," Lance responded quietly.

"You know I'm always here for you, right?" Jas whispered by Lance's ear.

Lance shivered at the warmth from the bartender's breath and nodded into the taller man's chest.

"Opening house!" the manager was suddenly hollering from the front, nearly giving Lance a heart attack.

He and Jas laughed at their own jumpiness as the phrase was repeated throughout the restaurant in various levels of anticipation and resignment.

Hungry patrons began filing into the building and were quickly seated by the charming and talented crew of waiters and waitresses. Service was running well until about four hours into Lance's shift. Lance had just handed out dishes heaped with food to a group of guests when he turned to face a new table of hungry customers that he quickly began to wish he hadn't seen.

"Good afternoo— Luis?" Lance blinked in surprise to see his brother sitting at a table designed for parties of two.

Luis' girlfriend, Gina, sitting at the other end in a deep red cocktail dress that hugged her figure. She glared at Lance with dark eyes, twirling a strand of black hair around her finger.

"Shi— Jeezus," Luis turned wrist to check the time on his gold watch. "Dude, it's like 3. Don't you get off at 2?"

"I picked up a few extra hours," Lance said defensively, crossing his arms. He had an odd, sinking feeling that Luis's choice in time to come to the restaurant had something to do with Lance's hours.

Luis visibly crumpled and sighed as if having Lance wait on him was the worst thing to endure. Lance didn't appreciate that. He prided himself on being personable, charming, and friendly,— every move he made was calculated to the unique needs of everyone around him. He was graceful, he was quick thinking, he was bright, he was warm. He knew he was a great waiter and his tips sang the same praises.

"Can I get you any drinks to start off?" Lance asked politely, handing the couple a pair of menus.

"Um, water. Lemon and ice," Luis said, flicking his gaze down to the menu to avoid eye contact.

"Are you—" Gina started loudly. She glanced around self-consciously and lowered her voice. "Are you seriously going to let him wait on us? Your family hates me. He'll probably spit in my food."

"He's not gonna—" Luis started exasperatedly, before turning to Lance with tired eyes. "Are you going to spit in her food?"

Lance couldn't help but feel a bit 100% offended at that.

"No. I'd be fired." Lance stated flatly.

"There you go. Now what do you want to drink?" he asked Gina, who scowled.

"I could suggest a new red we just received? Came in toda—" Lance began, trying to be helpful.

"You assume I'm the kind of person to drink in the middle of the day?" Gina demanded, sounding thoroughly offended. "Just because I'm Italian does not mean that I drink at 3 in the afternoon!"

"She'll have water. Plain," Luis said flatly, not looking up from the menu.

"Brilliant," Lance muttered, turning away from the table. He sped towards the drink station and began filling glasses of water.

"Woah, _hermanito, qu_ _é_ _pas_ _ó_?" Rosa exclaimed as she came out of the kitchen with fresh salt and pepper shakers.

" _Familia_." Lance spat, stabbing a lemon slice onto the lip of one of the waters.

Rosa chuckled under her breath as Lance gathered the two water glasses. He put on a plastic smile and wound through the maze of tables, guests and other waiters towards his brother.

"Water with lemon and ice, and water, plain." He set the drinks down, doing his best to ignore the stank eye he got from Gina.

"Are you ready to order, or do you need some more time?" Lance asked, pulling out his pen and paper pad.

At this moment, Gina looked at Luis expectantly, slapping his arm to get his attention. Luis gave her a pleading look and received a stern glare that caused him to turn to Lance, looking guilty and apologetic. Lance braced himself for whatever his brother was going to say.

"We'd like to request a new waiter."

Lance went cold. He clicked his pen closed and lowered his pad of paper. He swallowed hard. It wasn't that he really wanted to serve Luis and Gina. It was the fact that Lance's own brother liked him so little and preferred his girlfriend over his only little brother so much that he would replace his brother.

"Absolutely. Sir." Lance said, practically biting the word 'sir.' He almost enjoyed how it made Luis flinch.

Lance turned around to go find someone to trade tables with, all the warm fuzzies and excitement from earlier that morning now turned hollow and shaky. Hands trembling and stomach rolling, Lance desperately tried to find another waiter. Jackson was the first one he came up to, easy to spot by his blond curls.

"Jacks." Lance said quietly as he approached the man who was currently filling the ice machine at the drink station by the kitchen.

Jackson looked over to Lance with a grin, which melted pretty quickly upon seeing Lance's face.

"Hey, dude, what's the matter?" he asked in his sunny, southern accent.

"I'm gonna…. I-I ne… need…" Lance stuttered, flinching under Jackson's concerned gaze.

"What do you need, man?" Jackson said, face serious as death. Lance took in a shuddery breath.

"…gotta take my table. I need you to— you gotta take my table. I'll trade, I'll take _ten_ of yours, I just—" Lance broke off when his throat became too tight to force words through.

"Okay, okay," Jackson said, throwing an arm around his friend's shoulder. "Here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna take that table that's stressin' you out, we'll tell the boss—"

"N-no. Can't tell B-boss," Lance said, shaking his head. "Table's my brother's. An' his girlfriend."

Jackson froze.

"That useless brother of yours is here?" Jackson spit out.

Lance flinched away from the harsh tone.

"Sorry, kid. I just… your brother's an idiot. And his girl's a jerk."

"So, you'll do his table?" the boy asked hopefully.

"Only if you go see Jasper," Jackson bargained.

Lance looked up at him with watery eyes and nodded slowly.

"Okay," he agreed. He was gently shoved in the direction of Jas' bar and found himself moving mechanically towards it.

"Lan— hey, Cutie, are you okay?" Caroline was the first one to notice him. All Lance did was sniffle, and she immediately whirled around to smack Jas on the back, successfully getting his attention.

" _Jeezus_ , Mama, what the—" further complaints were cut short when Jas followed Caroline's finger. "Aw, Honey," the rough bartender said in a gentle voice when he saw a teary, shaky Lance.

Jas came around the bar and tugged Lance into a bear hug, dropping his chin on the boy's head. Lance shuddered into the soft dress shirt Jas wore and clutched the fabric in his fists.

"What happened?" Jas asked softly. Lance groaned.

"Nothing. Absolutely…. It's dumb," Lance chuckled bitterly. "My brother just requested a new waiter— that's all. It's nothing, it's no… it's because his stupid _girlfriend_ hates me and _he_ hates me, but I didn't think he hated me enough to get a new waiter, I-I…"

"I'm sorry, Kiddo," was Jas' simple response. It was enough. Lance allowed himself to be held, finding comfort in the strong arms around him, the warm breath in his hair, and the stroke of fingers on his spine.

"Jasie?"

"Yeah, Bud?"

"If I could pick a brother, I'd pick you," Lance said, realizing how childish it was, but not finding himself embarrassed for it. This was Jas, after all. Jas wouldn't make fun of him. The arms around him tightened and there was a soft laugh above Lance's head.

"I'd pick you too, Honey. Do you want a break, or do you want to try to keep working?"

"Wanna work," Lance muttered petulantly, making Jas laugh.

"Okay, Kid. Let's dry your face and get you back to work."

Lance nodded silently and rubbed his face with a tissue handed over by Caroline.

Once he was presentable and in an apron that was free of tear stains, Lance quickly got back to work. He was essentially back to his warped sense of mostly-normal and felt fairly steady, all things considered. It was lucky that the table Lance traded for Luis was a guest named Holly, which Lance figured was done purposefully. Holly was a long-time regular who was mischievous, loyal, and probably loved art as much as Keith. Lance found himself getting excited about Keith's painting all over again, forgetting Luis and Gina for a moment.

"Holly, my favourite art-extraordinaire," Lance began, grabbing the grinning girl's attention as he shifted a stack of menus into one arm to whip out and unlock his phone with the other. "You would not believe what happened this morning,"

"The last time you said that to me, I was bailing you out of jail," Holly said, blowing her straw wrapper at the back of another patron's head. She ducked before the target turned around to see who had done it.

"Technically, I was in holding," Lance corrected, pulling up the image of the sunset painting. "And quit antagonizing my guests, you absolute child. Here, check this out!"

One of the reasons Lance loved Holly was because of how dramatic she was. Holly's jaw dropped, and her eyes went wide as if she had just been given a million dollars. She grabbed the phone from Lance's hands, gasping and drawing the attention of a few people nearby.

"Did you do this?" Holly demanded shrilly, causing Lance to beam.

"No way did _I_ do that," he scoffed. "It's by this guy who's shadowing me at dance. He's working on some big project and needed inspiration, so his professor told him to come watch me."

"So, he paints you pictures in return for you letting him sit in on classes?" Holly asked slyly.

"No, no, this isn't for me! At least I don't think so…" Lance trailed off, scratching his cheek uncertainly. "I mean, I don't see why he would do something like that. He isn't the kind of guy to share his work with other people."

"What's going on over here?" a cold voice cut through the warm chatter that was enveloping Lance like a blanket.

Lance swallowed drily, turning to find Luis standing before him. The older man was wiping his hands on his pants, probably having come back from using the bathroom

"What did you do now?" Luis was looking at Lance expectantly.

Lance gnashed his teeth together tightly, swallowing down defensive words. It wasn't worth it. Instead of shouting back, even if he could find the words to do it. Luis took the offered phone from Holly's hands. When he saw the brilliant sunset and the shadowy beach before it, his eyes all but bugged out of his head.

"Who made this?" Luis whispered.

Holly responded before Lance found the words to tell him it wasn't his business.

"Keith, the kid who's shadowing his dance practices."

"Shadowing?" Luis spat, sounding oddly pissed.

"He's visiting some of his classes to get inspiration for art," Holly corrected, wincing at her original word choice.

"It's not a big deal." Lance finally piped up, rubbing his arm nervously

"Not a big— Lance, he's painting sunsets for you," Luis said it like there was something wrong with that.

"It's not for— why do you even care?" Lance exclaimed.

"Lance, this guy clearly likes you," Luis said flatly, almost sounding disgusted.

Lance froze, feeling his face heat up and his eyes sting.

"It's not like that, it's not for him," Holly defended.

"Do you know that?" Luis asked, turning to the girl.

"It's not your business!"

"It _is_ my business. He's my brother."

"So, it takes some guy asking for a kind word, or some… I don't know, validation for you to step back into my life?" Lance asked with more control than he felt he had at the moment.

"I…" Luis broke off.

Gina suddenly appeared at Luis' side, arm going around his waist and a look of disapproval settling on her face.

"Lance, go easier on your brother. He's been under a lot of stress lately because he has a tough job," she said slowly as if she were talking to a child or an idiot. "You may not understand that, but at least pretend to care."

Lance didn't respond. He focused on the sounds of clinking utensils, boisterous chatter of guests and waiters, and the stringed instrumental music that played over the speakers.

"Just… stay away from that Keith guy," Luis pleaded, sounding tired and worn.

He wrapped an arm around Gina's slim waist, making it very clear who's side he was on. Lance shook his head, silently backing away from Holly's table. He blinked furiously, angry that he couldn't come up with something powerful, or profound to shoot back at his brother. He was sick of being in fights ending that way, with Luis holding the last word. Lance wasn't surprised when his legs guided him, yet again, to the bar.

 **AN:**

 **Have a good weekend, I hope you enjoyed that spot of angst with your tea!**


	10. Open Eyes

**AN:**

 **Back to the old grind, my lovelies.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron Legendary Defender**

 **TWs: talk of abusive relationships and a non-violent/non-physical confrontation between a victim and an abusive ex. There is also a non-descriptive panic attack. If you need more deets before you feel safe reading, hit me up**

 **Chapter 10: Open Eyes**

Keith stood outside the four-story brick building, sweeping his gaze across the tall windows that gave glimpses of life taking place inside. In the first floor window, there was an exhausted lady rubbing her temples with one hand and holding a phone to her ear with the other. In another window were a few tall dancers in matching leggings and pink tank tops stretching their legs over the top of long wooden bars attached to the wall. In another was a collection of dancers sprawled across the floor sharing what looked like a pizza. Their faces were lit in big grins, but the pinching at each other's seemingly flat stomachs and toned legs told another story. In another was Lance.

Keith bit his lip, remembering the morning's events. Keith had woken up to several long-winded texts from Lance about a painting. That was when he realized he'd accidentally texted the picture of his sunset to Lance. After a frantic call to a very delighted and humoured Hunk, Keith was almost decided his embarrassment was too powerful for him to go to the studio. He definitely didn't respond to the Lance's responses, partially because he wasn't sure of the motivation behind Lance's kind words.

Hiking his bag higher on his shoulder, Keith pulled open the large door of the studio's front entrance and stepped inside. Immediately his senses were assaulted with loud chatter and the smell of fruity perfume with an underlying stench of sweat.

Keith was suddenly shoved with too much force to have been harmless or accidental. Losing his balance, he tripped and smacked into the wall with enough force to make his shoulder twinge in protest. His blank expression warped into a snarl and he glared over his uninjured shoulder at a small group of male dancers that were snickering at him.

"Sorry, dude, maybe you should watch where you're going," one of them cooed.

"Are you kidding me?" Keith snapped. "I don't know about you, but I graduated high school a while ago. Maybe you should, too."

Keith had always considered professional dancers to be a mix of "The Jocks" and "The Prissy Posse." The former being self-explanatory (football players, being the most common of the category) and the latter being well-dressed, snobby and usually female students with narcissistic streaks a mile wide.

As Keith made his way down the hall, he felt stares pinning him down. Some students whispered amongst themselves, eyes lighting up in recognition or darkening with irritation as stories about himself were traded ear to ear. It was comforting to see that some things never changed.

In his distraction over the whispers and stares, Keith almost missed Lance's room. The door was wide open, as was his trademark. Keith snuck a peek inside and found himself staring face to abs with a shirtless Lance. Some kind of Spanish song that sounded vaguely familiar was playing quietly on the radio and Lance was walking on across the room. On his hands.

"Hey, Little Red!" Lance exclaimed joyfully.

Keith couldn't help but feel welcome when faced with a smile that big.

"Excuse me?" He grimaced, catching on to his newly assigned nickname.

"Your jacket," Lance huffed with effort as he turned around on his hands to walk the other way down the room. "It's red. Like— ugh— Little Red Ri— ouch!"

Keith quickly made his way across the room to a collapsed pile of Lance, who's slender arms had given out from under his body's weight. Thankfully, the floors were a springy old wood, not hardpacked concrete.

"Jeezus, what's wrong with you?" Keith complained as he helped Lance into a less pretzel-y sitting position.

"My brilliant charm? My winning personality?" Lance offered with a slightly dopy grin.

Keith snorted. "Yeah, something like that."

Keith dropped his bag on the floor by a bench that sat across the room from a mirror-lined wall and plopped down. Looking down, he found a fancy purse and an overflowing bag of dance shoes next to him. Lance's bags. He reached out on impulse to touch a silky ribbon from one of the many ballet slippers and found himself almost hypnotized with the strange texture.

"Keith?"

Keith whipped his head up, jerking his hand away from the slipper as if he'd been burned.

"What?" he asked, finding Lance watching him with a bit of concern touching the grin on his face.

"Are you okay? You're rubbing your shoulder."

Keith found his hand clutching his shoulder, the one he had slammed into the wall.

"I'm fine," he immediately let go and busied himself with getting his sketchbook and charcoals ready. He hadn't even realized Lance was walking towards him until the dancer was kneeling on the floor in front him.

"Did something happen to your shoulder?" Lance asked.

Keith shook his head, but Lance seemed unconvinced.

"So, what are we doing today? Circus tricks?"

"Better," Lance grinned, "en pointe." He scooped up his slippers and began wrestling into pink slippers that had a strange, flat tip.

"These are pointe shoes. They have a little block thing inside so dancers can get up on their literal tip-toes easier and stuff," Lance explained when he noticed Keith's confused stare.

"That can't be comfortable," Keith said.

Lance laughed. "It's absolutely not! It takes forever to break these things in and even then, you'll still get blisters. And you have to use this yellow powder on your shoes, so you don't slip…"

"Sounds like a strange form of torture," Keith grimaced.

"It is," Lance said gravely.

"Then why do you do it?"

"Why do you draw?"

"Drawing doesn't make me bleed and it doesn't require torture shoes."

"Touché." Lance finished tying the ribbon on his second shoe and began riffling through his bag. He pulled out a baggy crop top that was made out of a sheer material. He slipped it on over his head, straightening it as he stood up.

Keith snorted as he read the skinny, stacked lettering on the shirt. It read: "plié jeté classé everyday." Lance looked over his shoulder when he heard the muted laughter and smiled.

"Hey, before you get started, I just wanted to say I'm sorry," Keith said suddenly. The accidental sending of the painting had been resting uncomfortably in the back of his mind but roared during the moment of silence.

"Sorry for what?"

"Sending that picture," Keith muttered, casting his gaze away from Lance. "It was late, and I was trying to send it to someone else, and—"

"You didn't mean for me to see it?" Lance asked softly.

"Um, no."

Lance nodded, looking a little distracted. "Okay, well, uh… ballet things time," he said, clapping his hands together. He speed-walked across the room and began fiddling with the stereo system.

"So, I was thinking," the dancer began.

"Dangerous pastime," Keith snickered.

"Shut up. I was thinking I could show you one of my dances with music, and then it without music."

"Why?"

"Well, there's a misconception that dance is just a visual of the music when, really, music and dance can speak for themselves. You don't need dance to understand music, and vice versa. They just… amplify the other," Lance explained.

"Why?" Keith repeated.

"How do you show, like, anger in painting?"

"You use darker colours. Red, mostly. Black. And thick brush strokes."

"Okay, those sound kind of… clinical. Like textbook answers."

"Does that make it wrong?" Keith asked uncertainly.

"No, there's just… look, let me just show you this, and you'll understand. I hope. I'll do the one with music first."

Keith nodded uncertainly, watching as the dancer pressed play on the stereo. Gentle violin warmed the room as Lance made his way to the center. The chord got louder and when it seemed to reach its peak, Lance reached his arms out before swirling them around above his head, arching his body with them.

There was an odd bass-drop type sound that startled Keith and to which Lance responded by hopping up on the tip of his shoe, arms splayed at his sides like he was flying. The music picked up, several violins and cellos now joining as Lance whirled around, breaking into a sudden leap that had Keith gasping. Lance spun wildly before arching back, arms circled above his head in the shape of an 'O.'

Eventually, the music slowed, and Lance's movement mimicked it, becoming more languid as he brought his arms up above his head, leg slowly following until his knee was almost touching his shoulder. The music suddenly came back with full force and Lance leapt, twisting his body in a way that didn't look humanly possible. The music slowed again, and Lance's movements became more fluid and elegant. He finally came to a stop in the center of the room, like a musical toy winding down.

"So that's one with music," Lance said. He jogged over to turn off the machine before it could play something else. He looked like he was going to say something but paused and sagged against the cabinet that held the stereo system.

"Is something wrong?" Keith asked, moving to the edge of his seat.

"No, I just…" Lance screwed up his lips in thought. "I have this contemporary piece I've been working on." Lance began to twist the thin fabric of his short.

"Go on."

"I haven't showed it to anyone. I know this whole 'a dance with music, then a dance without music' thing should be, like, the same medium— like I did the dance with music en pointe, so I should do en pointe without music— but, I think my point would be better… um, better… _proven_ with my contemporary routine." Lance looked at Keith as if waiting for approval.

"You're the dance guy. Whatever you want to do is fine with me." That seemed to be the best thing to say because Lance raced across the room and began tearing off his shoes.

"Okay, okay, okay," Lance babbled excitedly as he made his way to the center of the room. He was much closer the Keith than he was for the en pointe dance. So close, Keith could see the caramel flecks in his eyes. "So, this might go terribly, and you might hate it, but remember that this has never been shown to anyone so, it's like, the first edition of a book, you know? It's an unedited, mess and it's too emotional and needs more foundation—"

"Lance," Keith cut in softly. "Just dance."

"Rhymes." Lance's hands were shaking, and it suddenly occurred to Keith that the dancer might be nervous. It was strange. Lance was so sunny and joyful that it seemed impossible for him to be on edge or anxious.

"I'll love it. I know already," Keith said.

Lance nodded, taking a breath before closing his eyes. He lowered to his knees with his hands behind his back as if he were shackled.

After a moment of silence and stillness, the dancer arched his back impressively without moving his hands. He seemed to be straining against something until he sagged, as if his energy was spent on the struggle. He repeated the action of straining and relaxing again until the invisible shackles broke.

The force put behind the struggle caused Lance's arms to fly outward and he leaned forwards, looking so unbalanced that Keith actually reached forwards. His hands were almost at Lance's sides when he realized this was a part of the dance. He got a fond smile out of Lance for the embarrassment, though.

The first thing that newly 'freed' Lance did was tilt backwards, controlling his slow descent. On his back, his arms reached upwards as if he was trying to touch the ceiling. His legs fanned outward and he rolled gracefully onto his stomach and continued onto his back, like a dog rolling through the grass. The thudding of his body against the floor that would normally be obscured by music was strangely useful to the dance. It made the movements seem more real and tangible, like seeing the shadow of someone's jacket fluttering behind them or the circles of their fingertips on a glass covered in condensation.

Keith's heart caught in his throat when Lance's hands violently came up to choke himself. But, upon closer examination, Keith realized it was more like Lance was tugging on something that was choking him. Lance propelled his body across the floor on his back by kicking his legs as if he were struggling. And suddenly he leapt apart from whatever was fake choking him— but the way one of his arms was reaching out and how his body seemed to be tugged by the appendage… it looked more like he was yanked away from the choking phantom.

Lance artfully stumbled before twisting across the floor as if being tugged between two forces. Keith held his breath when Lance suddenly went down as if those fighting forces that yanked him between themselves suddenly disappeared and Lance was left without support.

On his back, Lance was still, breaths deep and obvious. Suddenly, his arms were up by his face, seeming to be gracefully battling off another unseen force as his kicks to the air and his flying arms increased their aggression until Lance threw himself off the floor and spun wildly. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground, his body floating off into the air.

Lance finally stopped when he came up to the mirror. He had raised a fist as if he was going to fight someone off again. Upon seeing his reflection, that fist weakened and lowed to rest by Lance's stomach. Lance lightly dragged that same violent hand from his cheek to his chest as if he were reassuring himself of his existence. The movement was as intimate as it was sensual, and it had Keith blushing, feeling like he was intruding.

Lance leaned forwards towards the mirror almost hesitantly, head down as if bowing. When his forehead came to touch the cool glass, he met his own eyes in the reflection and let out a shuddery sigh, fingertips coming to rest against the glass. It was heartbreaking to see.

Keith was breathless. He was suddenly aware that he was gripping the edge of his seat so tightly his knuckles turned white and released the bench. Lance sluggishly made his way towards the bench, gasping for breath as he went. He stumbled but Keith quickly reached out to steady him.

"Thanks," the dancer said sheepishly. "My routines kind of take a lot out of me."

"I've noticed," Keith said.

"So, do you see? Without music, dance is still emotional, raw, passionate and the music was kind of the sprinkles on the ice cream," Lance explained between gulps of water from his bottle.

"Yeah, in the first one, I definitely felt things. Like… I felt it. But the second one…" Keith didn't even have _words_ for this. He distractedly watched Lance pick at the chipping blue polish on his nails.

"The second one," he tried again. "I just… I _felt_ it. I felt like I understood what you were saying. This wasn't just a nice dance with a good message like the one with music. This was _powerful_."

"Thank you," Lance said, eyes shining.

"So, if I apply that to art…" Keith trailed off. "How do I apply that to art?" he asked, warming at the sound of Lance's laughter.

"Isn't that your job? I'm just supposed to offer guidance."

"You said it was raw… Maybe I rely on colour? I use red to show anger, which makes a nice picture with a good message, but… the point is that colour isn't only what show emotion. Those are the… sprinkles…" Keith's face screwed up at the word.

"Never thought I'd hear such a fun word come from your frowny face," Lance said.

"So, if it's not colour… what is it? What is it that actually says the thing I want to say? And how do I know what I want to say? Like, what if I don't want to say anything and I just… just…" He was at a loss in his strongest field. He'd never been so confused over _art_ , of all things. That was his forte, his strongest talent. And he was lost.

Trapped in his thoughts, Keith almost missed Lance's attempts at getting his attention.

"…alm down, breath, dude. You'll be okay. You'll figure this out, I know you will." Lance was saying, scooting a little closer. The artist took a shuddery breath, focusing on the heat he felt radiating off Lance's body and on the soft, grounding voice.

"I just don't… I've never… I've never not been able…" Keith breathed shallowly, hands clutching his kneecaps. He felt a feather-touch on one of his hands and immediately recoiled, taking a shuddery breath. After a minute of cooling down, Keith worked his way back to mostly normal.

"Come here." The confidence in Lance's voice made Keith look up to him. The dancer was holding his hand out, face honest. Keith cocked his head. "Come on, I won't bite. Unless you ask nicely."

Keith chuckled and shook his head. "I don't dance."

"Well, it's a good thing that I do, then," Lance said.

Keith looked at him for a minute and, when he didn't see any cruelty in those dark eyes, he hesitantly accepted the offered hand.

"What are we doing?" Keith asked when his free hand was guided to Lance's waist.

"Learning by practice," Lance said with a cheeky grin. "Maybe if you loosen up a bit, you'll get some inspiration?"

"I'm getting charcoal all over you," Keith said. Lance looked at their joined hands, seeing the black streaks that now stained his skin. The dancer shrugged.

"We're just mixing our forms of art," he said.

Keith felt very warm and wondered if there was ever a time that Lance wasn't smiling.

"Okay, step forward— other foot, yep. I mirror what you do, so I'll be stepping back— no, don't shuffle. Big steps, big steps." Lance coached Keith until the two were waltzing in slow, lopsided circles together.

Things were going smoothly (as smooth as a bumbling Keith could be) when someone came through the open doorway. Keith turned to see that the intruder was the blonde dancer from the other day who was a jerk to Lance. Lance's grip on Keith's hand tightened.

"What's going on, guys?" the blond guy asked.

"We're just dancing. So, Keith can get inspiration for his art," Lance answered too quickly. He wasn't smiling.

"You mean you moved on to the nearest warm body," the guy snorted, crossing his arms.

Keith raised an eyebrow.

"We weren't doing anything like that," Lance argued. His grip was strangling.

"You mean you aren't sleeping with this emo punk reject? That's strange, because you'll literally sleep with anything that moves."

The guy was a jerk. Keith knew this. He also knew Lance didn't like this guy but was trying to stay neutral because he had to work with him every day. But the way that Lance flinched when this guy stepped closer had Keith's blood boiling. He knew the stories a flinch could tell.

"Leave him alone," Keith demanded, moving in front of Lance without retracting his hand from the dancer's grip.

The blond guy came closer, so he and Keith were almost nose to nose. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Keith grinned darkly. "Whatever the hell you did to Lance."

"You and what army?"

Keith inched up his shirt sleeve, letting the purple tattoo peeking out speak for him. The blond dancer stepped back.

"Don't wanna fight some kid who hides behind a gang anyways," the guy said, tossing a glare that had Lance flinching before he stormed out.

"It's not a gang," Keith said under his breath when the guy left. Keith turned to Lance, finding the dancer was pale and shaking fiercely.

"Are you okay?"

Lance nodded minutely.

"Is he going to come back to hurt you if I leave? Do I need to stay?"

"No, I'll be fine," Lance whispered.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Keith asked quietly, running a hand down Lance's bare arm. While Keith may not be one for touch, he had a feeling Lance needed something grounding.

"Yeah."

"Text me. If anything happens— even if you just feel uncomfortable and he's not nearby, you text me. Please." Keith relaxed when he got a strong nod in response.

"So, you dated that guy?"

"Pretty stupid, right? Confident dancer with hundreds of friends winds up in an abusive relationship, takes years to get out of it, and tells no one. Lets the guy walk," Lance shook his head frustratedly before biting his lip in thought. "Have you…"

"My roommate… his name is Hunk. He was in a… bad relationship. It was… bad."

Lance nodded.

"I'll text you. I just… it was a while ago, so let's just drop it."

Keith stared.

"Lance, you can't just drop this. It isn't some little fight, it was an ongoing, abusive relationship. I can sort of guess you were physically and emotionally hurt by this man—"

"I'm not worth it!" Lance suddenly yelled. His face was bright red, eyes watery. "I'm not—" Lance sighed heavily, lowering his head and hiding his eyes in his fists. Keith watched the dancer in silence.

"Please…" Keith swallowed past a lump in his throat. "Tell me you don't believe that."

"Can you leave?"

Keith blinked at the sudden request.

"Wha—"

"I'd like for you to leave," Lance said with more conviction voice still shaking.

"Are you o—"

"Please."

Keith nodded.

"Okay, leaving," he promised, heading back to the bench. He swung his bag over his shoulder, scooping up his tin of charcoals and his notebook. He eyed Lance as he slowly crossed the room and looked over his shoulder once he got to the door. Lance was drying his face on his tiny crop top.

"Please text me," Keith said, leaving with no response.

 **AN:**

 **ANGST. Good stuff.**

 **Hey, thanks for reading and I hope you have a good week. See you next time!**


	11. Politics

**AN:**

 **We're talking about racism and general bullying today, folks.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Also, this is sort-of, mostly, kinda edited well-ish. Proceed.**

 **Chapter 11: Politics**

There were many parts of being a dancer that sucked literal balls. Cramps and other dance-related injuries were the most obvious. The idea that doing the thing you loved could also get you hurt was a pretty terrible thought. Also, sweating was gross. The smell of a dancer wasn't as pretty as the dancer looked on stage. There's also the tedious across-the-floor drills and stretches. But for Lance, it was two things: water and politics. The water was easiest to explain. Any athlete knows that staying hydrated is key to staying healthy and on top of the game and any athlete knows how hard it is to stay hydrated while playing the sport or doing the dance.

But politics sucked every kind of ball there was.

There was a hierarchy amongst dancers. It ran as broad as the type of dance and years of experience, to as narrowed as socioeconomic status and, horribly, race. The paler the better. Everything about ballet was pale. The light pink shoes, the pale-yellow chalk, the (generally) pastel outfits, the nude tights. The blonde hair. The white skin.

It was part of the reason Lance was so drawn to James when he first joined the studio. He looked just like the ballerinas he'd seen on TV. Lance grew up seeing and hearing about Anna Pavlova and Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev and others like them. He hadn't seen a dancer who wasn't white until his late teens and that told him something. That maybe he couldn't stick ballet out because he wasn't white enough.

This was always in the back of Lance's mind, even on his best days, but it was really irking him because of an incident between James, Keith and himself a day ago. It was a small confrontation, but it revealed a lot. Revealed everything to Keith and the way Keith looked at Lance after knowing would change everything forever.

Keith looked at him with confusion. Anger. Disappointment. The frown tugging at the corner of his lips and the tightness at his eyes both begged the question: why? Why would Lance not leave that kind of situation? Why would he not press charges, take the guy to court? And why, more like _how_ , could he end up in that situation in the first place?

The answers tumbled together, collided, unraveled and came back together only to be blown into thousands of pieces that reached the edges of Lance's mind. The process repeated and Lance mentally explained to Keith over and over again in so many different ways why he had to stay with this white, blonde dancer. It repeated so often (and without Lance's consent or ability to stop the process) that it ended up hurting him quite literally.

"Ow!" Lance yelped, attention jerking back into reality. His heart slammed in his chest as he found his feet slipping, causing him to crash to the floor loudly and gracelessly.

Thinking while dancing was rarely a good thing. If one was simply stretching or doing drills, it was possible. But doing it while performing the complicated move that required incredible balance and muscle control that Lance was attempting… it was _not_ a good thing. Now in a heap on the floor, Lance felt something twinge in his ankle and there was a shoot of hot, spasming pain racing up his side.

Lance rolled onto his back, gritting his teeth with embarrassment and discomfort as he propped himself up on his elbows with his injured leg stretched out in front of him. He heard a thud from the bleachers and looked up to see a slightly horrified Keith dropping his sketchbook and racing down the bleacher's steps. The artist made it to Lance's side in seconds and knelt, hesitant hands in the air as if wanting to help but unsure of how.

"Just a twist, if anything," Lance said with a pained grin. He pulled himself into a sitting position, arm going to hug his ribs, which twinged from the movement. At this moment, James appeared out of nowhere and knelt down like some Prince Charming by a damsel in distress.

"Someone call an ambulance," James said in a dramatic, authoritative voice. Lance couldn't help but flinch away from the presence and voice of the dancer but felt calmed when he saw Keith's exaggerated eyeroll.

Lance moved to stand, but found a gentle hand on his arm, keeping him from getting up. He almost jerked away but found himself stilling when he realized that the scarred, charcoal-covered hand poking out of the white cuff of a bright red jacket belonged to Keith.

"Can you stay still until we know you're okay? You might make your leg worse," Keith said. He was wearing a killer set of puppy dog eyes.

"I-I'm fine, it's just a twist, really," Lance said, already relaxing back onto the floor with Keith's supportive arms at his back.

"I'll leave the diagnosis to the doctors, thanks," James said suddenly, eliciting a glare from Keith that was positively _murderous_.

"Guys," Lance spoke up after a tense moment of silence. "It's just a twist. All it needs is ice and elevation. No doctors needed." Keith nodded, looking relieved.

"You sure?" Keith asked. There was nothing in his voice that implied disbelief.

"Absolutely."

"Okay, then, where can I get you that ice?" Keith asked as Lance sat up. Keith pulled the injured party up by his arms and up onto his good foot.

"Um, down the hall there's an ice machine. It's got bags you can fill up," Lance said as he hobbled to the bleachers with Keith's support.

James followed unnecessarily close behind them. Once he was in a sitting position, Lance carefully spun so he could raise his injured foot onto the bleacher seat beside him. Keith dragged Lance's dance bag to be within reach before he left with promises of ice to come.

Once Keith left, Lance leaned back into his seat, letting out a puff of air slowly. Controlling his breathing always made things like pain and stress (two things Lance usually had a sufficient dose of). He was so locked in his mind, focus wholly on his breathing exercises that he didn't notice a dancer of eleven years named Clara sitting down beside him.

"So, what's up with you and Edgy Boy?" Clara asked with a grimace from where she sat by Lance's foot. The vibrations of her movements sent a jolt of pain up Lance's leg.

"There's nothing going on between us," Lance said as he glared at the dancer. He dug through his bag for his water bottle to give his restless hands something to do, something to channel his embarrassment into.

"That's not what the grapevine says."

"The grapevine can burn, for all I care. It's rotten anyways," Lance muttered under his breath, taking a violent swig from his bottle.

"The grapevine seems to think you and he are going steady—"

"Yeah, I know what James— pardon me, the _grapevine_ thinks." Lance's comment earned him a glare from James, who was standing nearby with his arms crossed, looking half-worried, half-pissed.

"Well, excuse us for being a little—" Clara cut off when Keith came back into the room carrying a bag of ice.

"My savior!" Lance exclaimed, hands clasped over his heart and lashes fluttering.

Keith snorted and set the bag on Lance's ankle with gentler hands than were expected.

"Need anything?" Keith asked. Lance shook his head and patted the spot by his side, gesturing to Keith to sit with him.

"Just keep me company."

He thought Keith was going to stammer an excuse and rush back to his spot on the bleachers, but was pleasantly surprised when, instead, he nodded and sat down carefully as if he was afraid to jostle Lance. Lance watched as the dancers got back into position and continued practicing, but he felt eyes on him. He realized it was Keith when he shifted his foot, so his heel wasn't digging into the hard wood of the bleachers.

The moment Lance winced with discomfort, Keith was up and stripping off his jacket, balling it up and carefully lifted Lance's injured leg with warms hands that left black streaks on his leg, sliding the jacket underneath. Lance had to admit it was immediately a million times more comfortable with something soft between his foot and the bleachers.

"Thanks," Lance said warmly. Keith shrugged and sat back down, not noticing the glare that another dancer was sending him.

"Hey," Lance said casually. "So, how are you getting on with everyone?"

"Getting on? I just come to see your dances and occasionally a group practice. I don't need to get on with anyone but you."

Lance deflated, something in his stomach fluttering in protest.

"Ah, right. But still, I'm curious."

"Well, I'm not like you guys, so… I kind of stick out," Keith muttered, sounding uncomfortable.

"Stick out what?"

"Uh, you've probably heard people… you know, whisper about me. And stare."

"Don't worry they'll warm up to you," Lance said confidently as he patted Keith's leg.

Keith nodded, but seemed unconvinced. Lance watched him for a second.

"So, they're just being obnoxious and whispering behind your back?" He asked, watching Keith's face closely.

Keith looked down and began fiddling with a hole in his black jeans, a tell-tale sign that he was either lying or hiding something.

"No worse than could be expected. I'm sure they'll, uh, warm up to me."

Lance must've given him a disbelieving look because Keith rushed to support his statement.

"I mean, sure some of them a little rude, but I'm new and they're dancers and we're very different."

"What do you mean rude?"

Keith flushed bright red and his eyes darted around the room. "I mean, gossiping is rude."

"What do they say?"

"I don't pay much attention to it."

"Yeah? What else do they do?"

"Nothing."

"Keith."

"They look at me. Like, staring. And—"

"Lance, can you spot me on this?" James interrupted.

Keith gave James a cold, but otherwise blank stare.

"Sure, James," Lance said with a sigh. It was still his job to help the dancers he worked with.

Lance watched as James began spinning in tight, neat circles en pointe. He had to admit, James was a brilliant dancer. He was strong, controlled, steady. His weak points were mostly being not being as graceful, light, airy, or elegant as a ballerina should be. Lance relayed this to James and got a smile that looked a little haughtier than usual. He felt Keith stiffen beside him.

"So, what were you saying?" Lance asked when James went back to practicing with the group.

"Sorry?" Keith looked more embarrassed than confused.

"You said people were gossiping and staring. You were going to say something else, but we were interrupted."

"Oh."

"Yeah. What was it?"

"Uh, I don't remember—"

"You're a weak liar, Keith."

Keith snickered and looked away before saying, "I just… uh, the other day… it was a one-time thing, so it's not a big deal…"

"Maybe let me or Bossman be the deciders of that?" Lance suggested.

"It's really not a big deal, I can handle a little roughhousing—"

"I'm sorry, a little _what_?" Lance demanded, mind spinning a little as he constructed many worst case scenarios of what that meant.

"Lance—"

"Shut the hell up and tell me what you mean," Lance blurted out, immediately regretting it. Snapping at someone was a great way to get them to shut down and not tell you anything.

Surprisingly, Keith only slumped a little where he sat and explained. "Yeah, um… the other day some guys just shoved me into the wall. Not, like, hard or anything. Just like, they were trying to mess around and accidentally got too rough."

Lance sighed.

"Let me tell you something about dancers. We plan everything. Our next meal. How many calories it is, how much protein, how many carbs. Our stretching and working out routines. How long, how hard, how fast, how many breaks, how much water we need. Our dances. The next step, the angle for the next step, the power needed behind the next step, the facial expression that goes with the next step." Lance paused to laugh at Keith's bewildered expression. "What I'm trying to say, is that we don't do anything without having a purpose behind it. So those guys that pushed you— I don't want to upset you, but you have to know that they definitely had a reason for it."

"Well," Keith muttered. "Thanks for that."

"How hard did they push you?"

"They just knocked me off balance."

"Did they hurt you?"

"Of course not."

Quick answer. Too quick. Lance suddenly remembered Keith rubbing his shoulder the other day, wincing minutely. Oh.

"That's why you were rubbing your shoulder!" Lance exclaimed like he had just solved a riddle. He reached out to pull the neck of the artist's shirt down to expose his shoulder. "Let me see. It is bruised?"

"What!? No! It's fine!" Keith squawked, fighting to get away from Lance. But Lance had already managed to catch a glimpse of black and purple where there should be white.

"Oh my— _Keith_!" Lance gasped.

Keith drooped like a wilting flower, yielding to Lance's probing fingers. Lance felt around the bruise, searching for cuts or other open wounds. When he found none, he glanced back to Keith's face, which was screwed into a grimace.

"Was I hurting you?"

Keith shrugged in response.

"Tell me next time."

"It's fi—"

"It's not fine!" Lance shouted. He cursed softly, dropping his head into one hand, elbow propped on his knee.

"You met Pidge, right?"

Keith nodded, clearly not following.

"People were pretty bad to him at school. It wasn't fair. He's so smart, and sensitive and— Christ, he such a good person… They would pick on him. Started with scary looks. Then it was mean words. Then it was fights. Physical fights. They would hit him."

Keith's hands balled into fists.

"That's bullying. That's assault." Lance gripped Keith's shoulder gently, forcing Keith do look him in the eye. He released Keith but kept a hand on the injured shoulder. "This is assault."

"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. I'm different. People don't like it, and this is how they react. It's fine."

Lance gave him a flat stare, not believing the reluctant words coming from the artist's mouth.

" _Politics_!" Lance growled, tugging at his hair with both hands. "It's _not_ fine. It's not fine because this is _my_ place, it's being done by _my_ people and it's being done to _you_. This studio is my home. Those people are my family. You're part of that too, now. And they're… they're _hitting_ you. Because they think you don't matter. But you do matter, even if you're different. Don't you care that they don't think you matter?"

Keith smiled softly in response and set a tentative hand on Lance's knee. It was weird because Keith hated touch. The way he constantly kept his distance from others, Lance figured the only reason Keith would touch another person was if he was dragging them out of a burning building. For him to be actively engaging in touch right now… Lance must look like an absolute mess. His burning face and stinging eyes quickly clued him into why that might be.

"God, why am I like this?" Lance complained. He covered his eyes with one hand and leaned against his seat, tilting his head back.

"What do you mean?"

"Emotional. All the time. I hate this."

"Don't freak out, dude, emotional is good. Well, you specifically use it for good. Like, you care about everyone a lot and you get emotional for them and that's… good."

Lance turned his head, peeking out from under his hand, asking, "Are you trying to give me a pep talk?"

"Is it working?"

"Maybe a little," Lance said with a grin, bumping shoulders with Keith.

Keith rolled his eyes but grinned slightly.

"So that thing about… being different," Keith said, face pinking slightly. "And the thing about politics… what's up with that?"

Lance laughed nervously. "Sorry about that. It's just… there's politics in everything, you know? Especially in big stuff like ballet, football, whatever." Keith nodded slowly, clearly not following. "It's just… how many non-white ballerinas do you know?"

Keith was quiet. Then he smiled slowly. "I only know one ballerina."

"Thanks for that," Lance said with a chuckle. "The point is that, I'm different, too."

"I thought this place was pretty diverse? I mean, there seems to be pretty good balance of white and black dancers…" Keith trailed off uncertainly.

"White and black aren't the only kinds of people, are they?" Lance said softly.

"I… sorry. I'm sorry," Keith said, looking stricken.

"It's okay," Lance said with a sardonic grin. "I'm used to it."

Keith shook his head. "It's really not okay," he said, using Lance's words against him.

"It's really not, is it?" Lance sighed. Watching his dancers was like watching a black and white film. No shades in between.

"Hey, it's thirty minutes until my next class," Keith said sheepishly, eyeing his watch. "Sorry to leave you on that note, but I have to go."

"You're fine, see you tomorrow," Lance said as Keith began packing his papers and pencils. "Be safe."

"Be safe," Keith said with a smile. He wove in and out between the dancers, ducking under an arabesque and tripping over a jeté until he made it to the door. Lance squared his shoulders and fixed his face with a scowl when he was sure Keith was far enough down the hall. He needed to have a conversation with some of his fellow dancers.

 **AN:**

 **Thanks for reading, have a good weekend! Please take care of yourselves with Corona spreading around! Wash your hands! Drink water! Stay home and binge read all my crappy writing!**


	12. Banana Muffins

**Need some warm Keith &Hunk friendship times to get you through coronacation? Here you go.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Also I forgot how hard it is to write fluff and keep people in character like holy cow you guys, here goes nothing.**

 **Chapter 12: Banana Muffins**

"…ae tina… 'ou e le mafai ona…"

Keith drew his knees up to his chest, burrowing deeper into his roommate's bed as he eavesdropped on a conversation he couldn't understand. The warm fairy lights above his head glowed softly but weren't as comforting as he'd hoped. He tentatively reached out to touch the spot on the bed beside him. The blankets were still warm.

Keith flinched when Hunk shouted into his phone from outside their shared room. He was trying to pay attention to inflection and tone and whatever else of Hunk's voice that he could latch onto to and attempt to figure out what he was saying, but there wasn't much success. He just felt unsettled and sick, like Hunk's emotions were seeping through the door and infecting the air, which was thick and unbreathable.

Against his own will, Keith found himself jumping up from his own bed and racing to Hunk's, finding the air to be clearer there. He worried his lip and watched Lion paw at the door that separated them from Hunk.

"'Ioe. Fa." The words were snipped and uncharacteristically sharp. There was a moment of silence before a heavy, burdened sigh whispered through the cracks of the door.

Lion swished his tail nervously and peeked over his shoulder at Keith. The cat's eyes were sparkling with intelligence and curiosity, and Keith couldn't help but sense a question in the way his ears laid flat to his skull and his head cocked to the side. Sighing, Keith shrugged, grabbing one of Hunk's pillows and hugging it tightly to his chest.

Minutes later, the door creaked open and both Keith and Lion straightened up, looking expectantly at Hunk. What Keith saw made his heart ache like an abused muscle.

Twin tracks made their way down Hunk's normally grinning face. His eyes looked flat, catching the room's light dimly like they were glazed over. When those weary eyes landed on Keith, they softened slightly and Keith found it to be incredibly relieving. That softness was a sign that Hunk was still there and that he was more okay than not.

Hunk plodded across the room, shoulders drooping and jaw quivering. He eased himself onto the bed and dropped his phone on the nightstand, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. Keith didn't say anything. He didn't do anything. He just waited.

"Grandma Talia…" Hunk said after a minute. He swallowed tightly and squeezed his hands into fists. Keith slowly set a hand on one of Hunk's. Hunk gripped Keith's hand fiercely with both of his. "Grandma's sick."

"What?" Keith felt his stomach beginning to churn. Hunk's family was, basically, also Keith's family, and he wasn't prepared to lose anyone yet. "What does she…"

"They don't know. They don't…" Hunk broke off with a shuddery breath. "She's getting tested for… _everything_. They don't even know if it's, like, a virus, or a condition or… We just don't _know_."

"Aw, Hunk," Keith threw an arm around his friend's broad shoulders as best he could. He pulled Hunk back so they flopped against the mountain of pillows on Hunk's bed. They each grabbed a corner of Hunk's quilt and pulled it up, which Lion took as an invitation to curl up on top of Hunk's blanketed body.

"She's doing… really bad. Really bad," Hunk shuddered, hiding his face into Keith's bony shoulder, shuddering when Keith laid a hand on his head.

"How'd it get so bad? How'd…" How do you ask someone how their family didn't notice that their oldest matriarch was ill or dying?

"She said she didn't want to…" Hunk broke off with a quiet sob that went straight to Keith's already pained heart. "She didn't want to cause problems for us. Because we don't… we don't have much. You know, money-wise."

It was true. While Hunk's family was rich in culture, flourishing with love, prosperous in number and absolutely rolling in joy, they weren't well off in cash. There was no way the family could foot a hospital bill on top of Hunk's tuition, despite the well-deserved scholarships he'd earned.

"Hunk, I'm so…" Keith couldn't even put it into words. He tried to think of what would've helped him when he needed it so many long years ago, but nothing came to mind. There aren't words to heal this sort of thing.

"Me too," Hunk said wistfully.

As they lay in silence, basking in the comfort of the other and trying to sooth their grief, Keith's mind was going a million miles a minute. He was extremely concerned for Grandma Talia but thinking about it wasn't going to help at all. What he might be able to help out with, however, was the financial part of things.

Keith didn't come from money, so he couldn't exactly sign a check or hand over a stack of bills to Hunk's family. He also couldn't just get a job and share his wages because any job he was qualified for wouldn't give him enough to even make a dent in a hospital bill. He needed to think of a way to get a lot of many and fast, but as legally as possible.

That got him thinking about who he knew that had money. Most of the student body was well off, as the school was known for educating esteemed and wealthy students, but it wasn't like he could just go up to his classmates and ask for their money. That was when he thought of a benefit.

He could host some sort of carnival or something that gave students and people living in the area some fun for a great cause. It was a good idea at the start, until Keith started plotting out the details.

First, Keith was pretty sure the school wasn't going to sponsor a benefit that helped out just one student. He may have to do some convincing but, if worst came to worst, Keith could try to get a student to claim the benefit as their senior project.

Another problem was what the benefit would be. Keith would have to plan food, events, booths, music— there were a lot of little parts that needed to fit well together. He'd have to reach out to other students to bring ideas from every asset, every major, and every corner of the school together to make a solid, enjoyable benefit that would rake in a lot of money. Keith usually did things himself, but this was something he really couldn't screw up, He had to find a way to reach out to other students and convince them to help, but—

"Keith?"

Keith's attention snapped back to Hunk when he heard his name. Hunk smiled fondly and began plucking at a string on his worn blanket.

"Never mind," Hunk said quickly.

"Hunk," Keith said, feeling a little exasperated at Hunk's sudden anxiousness around talking to him. "Just say it. It's okay to ask for things."

"I just… will you bake with me?" Hunk looked up with big puppy eyes of dark chocolate and honey.

Keith, destroyer of all things kitchen, found himself nodding into his friend's hair, sure he would regret the decision in time to come.

"Keith. We have to get up to do that."

"Wait, you meant now?" Keith complained with a slight whine.

Hunk chuckled, his warm breath kissing Keith's skin.

The boys clambered out of Hunk's bed, leaving a disgruntled cat and a mess of blankets in their wake. Keith allowed himself to be dragged by the hand to the kitchen downstairs, where he hopped up on the island counter top in the middle of the room and watched Hunk run back and forth grabbing ingredients and measuring cups.

"So, what are we making?" Keith asked as he dug into a bag of chocolate chips that was mistakenly placed within his reach.

"We're making— stop eating those— we're making chocolate chip banana muffins," Hunk said, smacking Keith's hand and moving the chocolate chips to the counter against the wall.

Keith pouted when he was handed bananas with leathery, brown skin to peel and mash while Hunk gathered, measured, and combined the dry ingredients.

"This is gross," Keith complained as he used the flat side of a butter knife to mash the five or six bananas in his care.

"Take it up with whoever took my masher," Hunk mumbled as he beckoned for Keith to bring his mashed bananas to the mixer.

"So, what do I do? Just drop them in?"

"No, no, no, are you crazy? We drop a third in, then add the flour, and repeat," Hunk explained as he helped Keith add the right amount of banana to the mixer.

After the ingredients were all in the mixing bowl, Hunk turned the speed of the mixer up a little and chuckled when Keith was hit with a cloud of flour. In retaliation, Keith shook his head like a dog, sending the flour airborne again. Most of it landed on Hunk, coating his hair and flower-print apron in the fine powder.

"For that, you get to line the tins," Hunk scolded, pulling sunny yellow cupcake liners with white polka dots out of a drawer that Keith was nearly 100% positive didn't have cupcake liners thirty minutes ago when he was searching through it for a bottle opener at the start of Hunk's phone call.

Keith accepted the liners and began separating them and pushing them into the muffin holes in the tin while Hunk perfected the batter with cinnamon, nutmeg, and whatever else he felt compelled to add to the batter. Hunk wordlessly held a spoon of batter out to Keith, who eagerly closed his lips around a sweet and fragrant bite of batter.

"Perfect," he groaned, grabbing a clean spoon so he could steal another taste.

Satisfied, Hunk added the chocolate chips before pouring the mixture into the lined muffin tin. The tray was then put into the oven by Hunk because Keith couldn't get anywhere near anything remotely hot without burning himself, and the two plopped onto the floor to watched intently as the muffins slowly began to rise.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Keith found himself getting antsy. He crossed his arms to keep his hands still and tried to keep his constant shifting to a minimum. Eventually, he lost his patience.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Keith asked.

"There's a literal timer set. Like, you can see it on the oven, dude," Hunk said in a slightly condescending voice as he pointed up to the oven timer. "Maybe try to pay attention."

Keith gave Hunk an appraising look.

"When did you get so snippy?" Keith asked. Hunk's reaction to the question made Keith wish he hadn't said anything.

"Sorry," Hunk said quietly, dropping his forehead into the dip of Keith's shoulder. "Here you are, being a good friend and putting up with me and I'm being a jerk."

"No, no, that's not—" Keith bit his lip. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad, man. I'm just wondering what's up with you. Not to sound rude, but you've lost people before. Why are you so…"

"The only person I've ever lost was Grandpa. I don't know loss like…" Hunk trailed off.

 _I don't know loss like_ _you_ , is what he meant.

"Grandma is the last person in our family who was raised on the island my family comes from," Hunk continued, straightening up. "We all know the stories, but she's the only one with the memories and…and she's dying so…"

Keith nodded, unable to understand, but able to sympathize.

"So, how's stress baking working out? You feel any better?" Keith asked, trying to change the subject. As usual, he was on the wrong side of subtle. He scooted so their sides pressed together and he felt the soft rumble of laughter before he heard it.

The oven dinged cheerily, and Hunk was on his feet, playfully shoving Keith out of his way to get to the muffins. Keith muttered under his breath about ungrateful friends before he pulled himself up off the floor. There to greet him when he finally stood up was a smiling Hunk and a warm muffin.

He accepted the muffin and tapped it against Hunk's in a mock toast before biting though warm, melted chocolate and into the moist texture that came from the bananas. It was the best muffin he'd had in his entire life and it made Keith understand how food could taste like home. It was warm, sweet and comforting. Keith laughed at himself, blaming Hunk for his sappy mood.

"Baking is helping, actually," Hunk finally responded sheepishly. "It, uh, usually helps best with a friend. So, thanks. For baking with me, I mean."

"Anytime. I'm always here for you, buddy," Keith promised as Hunk gave him a boost up onto the counter and set the tray beside him.

"Even if it's for stress baking, muffin bonding, sad times?" Hunk's question seemed a little too honest and vulnerable.

"Even if it's for stress baking, muffin bonding, sad times," Keith said firmly.

Hunk wrapped his arms around Keith's middle, his forehead resing against Keith's chest. Keith held him as tightly as he could.

"Yeah, yeah. I love you too, big guy."

 **AN:**

 **I can spell banana without second guessing myself now. What's new with you?**

 **Love you guys bunches (lol, like banana bunches sorry i wanna bake but cant for Reasons help), have a good week!**


	13. The Art of Imitation

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Are things falling into place too easily in this story? Yes. Yes, they are.**

 **Chapter 13: The Art of Imitation**

Lance bopped around in his seat on the bus to the powerful lyrics and pulsing rhythm that cleared away everything else in his muddled head. He closed his eyes and grinned as the music eased his tension. Lance stayed deeply lost in his own world until the bus came to a halt. The brakes screeched with age and the door squeaked as it swung open to allow a few people on.

Lance paid the arriving passengers no mind, beginning to tap out a quick rhythm on his knees to accompany Shakira's up-beat tempo. It wasn't until he heard a familiar voice that Lance's eyes finally opened.

"No, no, you're supposed to call— well, if you knew that you were supposed to talk to her about this, then why did you call me— yes, I'm the one _planning_ the benefit, but I'm not the one who's handling _funding_ , my section is— then _call her!_ " An irritated Keith plopped down in a seat across the aisle from Lance and hung up his call, slamming his phone face down on the set beside him with more force than seemed necessary.

"Rough day at work?" Lance drawled, turning down the volume of his music. Keith looked up at him with wide eyes like he'd been startled.

"Oh. Hi," he said blankly

Lance snorted at the greeting and settled back into his seat with a heaviness to his stomach. "Try not to sound so enthusiastic, might boost my ego too high."

"Uh, sorry." Keith looked surprisingly guilty, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

"I was kidding," Lance said, throwing his feet straight out into the aisle so he could kick one of Keith's. "But seriously, what's got you so bent out of shape, Little Red?"

"Don't call me that," came the immediate response. Lance put his hands up in surrender and leaned forward in his seat

"Whatever you say, just tell me what's going on."

"I just…" Keith slouched farther down into his seat. "Something's going on with my friend. And I'm trying to help."

"What's up with your friend?" Lance asked, highly aware that he'd have to be careful with his words, unless he wanted to annoy Keith into silence.

"Uh, his grandma is really sick, and I'm kind of putting on a benefit to help, I guess. It won't big, and I know it won't bring in a lot cash… plus planning is hard... also funding," Keith dragged a hand down his face, looking oddly exhausted and kind of unconfident. Like something had shaken his core. "I just really want it to work out, you know?"

Lance blinked, feeling a little taken aback. Keith look anxious, but he looked so _determined_. His eyes were hard like he knew he was going to do this benefit thing. And by God if Lance wasn't going to help make sure it happened.

"I'm sure you just trying will be enough to cheer up your frien—"

"Yeah, but will it _help_?" Keith asked sharply. "Will it _do_ anything?" Lance watched him for a minute.

"Keith, anything helps. Trust me. Anything you do will help." Keith nodded slowly, averting his gaze.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Keith fiddled with notebook, seeming to be drawing a woman that sat sideways in her chair a few seats ahead of them. He held up his notebook every now and then, comparing the image he was drawing to his model. Whenever the woman shifted or turned her head, Keith let out exasperated grumbles that had Lance grinning. Art may look different between them, but they both got lost the same way.

Lance sat up quickly, his phone clattering from his lap to the floor. That was it. Art. Different kinds of art appeal to different people, and what's a better way to earn money than to transfer those kinds of art that reach those people into physical things that could be sold?

"Lance. Dude, what's going on?" Lance's attention snapped back into focus when he heard Keith calling his name.

"What are you doing for the benefit? Like what are the events?" Lance asked, swiping his phone off the floor. Keith raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, art stuff, I guess. Like, I've got some people in my class painting things to sell… I'm not sure what else to do. I'm planning to reach out to other departments at some point and see what others can offer, but… I'm not sure all the departments are going to be able to help—"

"Keith, buddy," Lance said, resting a hand on Keith's shoulder. "Finding ways to earn money is my specialty, I've been doing it for a very long time, now. Let me help." Keith stared at him in shock.

"Wait, what?"

"What do you mean "what," I'm offering my help."

"No, I mean… what? You want to help? You can help?" Lance stared at his friend with a flat expression.

"Dude. Yes, I want to help, and yes, I can help. I have a brain, you know, it works," Lance huffed irritably.

"I wasn't trying to call you stupid I just…"

"It's fine. Anyways, I was thinking of ways each department can do something with your benefit. Like, you've got theatre kids, right? They can put on a play, the writing kids can do a poetry reading… you've got music kids and plenty of instruments, so you can try to do performances or— hey, what if had music students teach people how to play the instruments?" Lance rattled off, finger tapping his chin as he racked his brain for more suggestions.

"Also, find people who can make pottery, jewelry, clothes, stuff like that. You could do auctions or just sell it. Oh, also, do you think my dancers could do something? We have a few routines that are performance ready, but we'd clear them with you first, of course, and you'd get say on costumes, music selection— why are you looking at me like that?"

Keith staring at him with something akin to wonder. Lance felt heat sear across his face, and he clenched his hands in his lap, feeling oddly uncomfortable and on display.

"Sorry, you just… remind me of someone," Keith said with a small smile. "If you and your dancers are willing to help out for the benefit, that'd be great. I'm just not sure if _they'll_ be willing to help me out."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find that their attitudes have changed," Lance said firmly. "They might not be excited to help out, but they'll do it. And with a smile to boot."

"I you say so," Keith said, not sounding very convinced. He quickly put away his art materials as the bus pulled up to their stop, and Lance threw his bag over his shoulder as he maneuvered through the tangle of bodies on the bus.

He hopped off the bus and waited on the sidewalk for Keith, who was grumbling and tripped down the aisle while trying to zip his bag shut at the same time. Seeing the artist's struggle, Lance offered a hand to help Keith down the stairs.

"My lady," he said, tone coloured with mirth. Keith rolled his eyes and elbowed away the offered hand as he stormed off the bus and into the dance studio.

"Aw, don't be like that, babe," Lance called laughingly as Keith continued to speed-walk ahead. "You know I didn't mean it!"

"Can it, McClain!"

"Come on, let's talk about this— good morning, Lauren!— sweetie, wait for me!" Lance jogged past the receptionist and up the broad staircase, trying to catch up with Keith. It wasn't very difficult, due to the swarm of students that kept Keith from getting far.

"What room are we in?" Keith muttered, distractedly eyeing the students in the hall when they reached the top of the staircase.

"This way, sugarplum—"

"I will end you."

"Nah, you love me too much," Lance retorted as he pushed open the door to the room, they were going to be practicing in. Keith made a slightly strangled sound that was covered by a cough.

"Whatever you say, twinkle toes," Keith snapped back.

Lance froze in the middle of setting his bag on the long wooden bench in the back of the room. Good humour bubbled up in his stomach and warmed his chest, making him to laugh out loud.

"Please call me that forever," Lance requested, whipping imaginary tears of laughter.

"Why does everything I say have the opposite effect on you?" Keith sounded almost grumpy. He shuffled across the room with his usual horrible posture and plopped on the bench by Lance's bag, beginning to unpack his art supplies.

"One thing you'll learn about me, my love, is that I'm generally the opposite of what people expect," Lance said with a wink as he lowered himself into a split in front of his stuff on the bench. He grabbed his water bottle and took a few gulps as he allowed his legs to become comfortable with being stretched out.

"How the heck do you do that?" Keith asked suddenly.

Lance blinked, mouth still around the bottle.

"Lots of previous stretching that didn't look nearly this impressive, let me tell you. I started dance when I was very young, and I've kept up with it, otherwise I would've tightened back up. Which is horrible," Lance complained.

"How young is very young?"

"Look at you, captain curious—"

"Don't call me that."

"I started when I was, like, three, but I started lessons when I was seven."

"You've been dancing since you were seven?" Keith asked, looking mildly impressed.

"No way, it was on and off through elementary and middle school. I came back with full power in high school and that's when I joined the studio," Lance explained as he moved to the barre and swung a leg up.

"But isn't the studio a full-time job kind of thing?" Keith asked as Lance dropped his nose to his shin. "How in the world did you balance a full-time job with school?"

"Oh, I didn't." Lance turned and stretched down, head low enough that he could see between his legs and caught Keith's eye. "I dropped out."

"That looks so painful," Keith muttered under his breath. "When did you drop out?"

"Hey, what's with the 20 Questions, my friend? Isn't that game supposed to go back and forth? You ask me, then I get to ask you?" Lance said as he arched his back into a dip, leg still on the barre.

"There are things you want to ask me?" Keith sounded honestly surprised that Lance would find interest in the quiet, broody artist.

"Well, yeah, baby doll—"

"Jeezus, just go back to 'baby,' I'm not a freaking doll."

"Did I just get permission to call you 'baby'?" Lance asked incredulously, whipping his head around to face Keith.

"Merciful God kill me now," Keith pleaded to the ceiling.

"That was permission to call you "baby"!" Lance crowed joyfully. He swung his leg off the barre and popped the other on up there.

"Please just ask your question."

"Oh, right, my question, ummm…" Lance leaned his elbows on the barre. "Let me think…"

"You have twenty seconds."

"Wait, this is timed?"

"Seventeen seconds."

"That's not fair, you didn't tell me that—"

"Fifteen."

"Okay, my question is art!"

"That's not a—"

"What got you into art?" Lance interrupted. His question was met with silence, causing him to look up to make sure Keith was still there. "Um, Keith?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just… I knew this guy…"

" _Oh_." Lance pulled his leg off the barre and turned to face Keith, who looked tense.

"What, you got a problem wi—"

"No, no, no! I mean, have you seen me? No. I don't have a problem with it, I just… I know what that feels like. To lose... It sucks. I mean. I think we're talking from different contexts, like…. maybe you should just finish." Lance felt his face heat up and sat on the floor to continued stretching.

"Okay… I guess? Um, the guy was like… I don't know, an older brother to me. You know? And he made it okay for me to do art. I didn't, uh, think it was okay. People said it was… But he said it was okay." Lance felt something twist in his chest when he saw how wistful Keith's normally stoic or irritated face was.

"And he paid for me to go to art classes and he… I moved in with him and we were like…"

"Family," Lance finished. Keith nodded, dragging his hand through his hair.

"I kinda stopped doing art for a while. But thinking about him got me back into it and doing it made me feel better… I guess I just… I miss him. My brother. I miss him."

"I get that. I get you," Lance said, blushing at the admission. Keith eyed him closely before quickly recovering with another question.

"So, when did you drop out of high school?"

"Um… junior year. Like two minutes after I turned seventeen."

"Don't you need a parent signature for that or something?"

"I'm an independent."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. I got a job, a place to live. Add the blood of a virgin and the hair of a unicorn and _bam!"_ Lance clapped his hands together for emphasis. "I became an independent. I mean, I still hang out with family, and stuff. My brothers and sisters and I still carpool, but I live on my own and support myself and such." Keith stared at Lance like he sprouted an extra head.

"Wow."

"Right? Super cool, I know," Lance said smugly, tossing hair out of his face. "Anyways, it's my turn."

"What do you want to know?" Keith asked, sounding reluctant.

"Um…"

"20 seconds."

"Stop that!" Lance scolded. "Oh, here's a good one. You know a bit about my family, let's hear about yours." Lance noticed the slight shift in Keith's mood the moment the word "family" came from his lips. He just didn't know how to fix it.

"Well, there's not much to say. My mom left when I was a kid, my dad died a while later. That's it."

Lance wasn't sure what to do with that. Was this when he was supposed to say, "I'm sorry for your loss"? But Keith most definitely didn't want his sympathy or pity. Should he just nod and stay silent? That would be awkward. Should he ask for details? Sometimes people liked to talk about their dead people, right?

"What were they like? Your parents, I mean," Lance pressed. His heart warmed when the corner of Keith's lip quirked up. He made the right move.

"My dad was a hero. A firefighter. He died saving a house of kids and their mom."

"Sounds like something you'd do."

Keith scoffed at that.

"I wish. I'm more likely to accidentally start a fire than help someone out of one." Before Lance could argue, Keith spoke up again. "I don't remember anything about my mom, but my dad told stories about her. She was in a gang of some type, but, like, the good kind of gang. If that even makes sense. Sounds like an oxymoron when I say it out loud." Keith shook his head, a small, sad smile on his face.

"So, what happened to you after your dad passed?" Lance asked, fearing the worst already.

"Foster system."

"That sucks, I'm sorry, man."

"Well, it wasn't all bad. I got adopted. That guy I was telling you about… he came for me. Pointed right at me when he came to pick a kid. Saw me in the corner and the rest is history." Keith grinned fondly. "Before him I was in home and most sucked. All of them sucked. Just… some sucked worse. Anyways, we're here to talk about dance and stuff, right? Let's… let's do that."

Lance followed the jump in subjects without comment.

"If we do perform for the benefit, we'll bring our own equipment and music and such, as long as there's somewhere we can plug into. Oh, what's your theme? We don't want to do something that contrasts completely with your colours and mood and whatnot."

"What now?" Keith asked with a blank face.

"Yeah, for the benefit." Lance was still getting a blank look. "Is this a carnival type thing? Is it a party? Is it formal? Is it casual? Also theme."

"Ah, um… casual, carnival type thing. But we're not doing, like, clowns or whatever."

"What, you don't like clowns?"

"Um, no," Keith said firmly.

"Why, Keith, are you afraid of clowns?" Lance asked, grinning slyly.

"No, no way! I just— they aren't right. For the… benefit."

"Sure thing, dude," Lance said, hiding a smile behind his hand. "What colours do you have going on for the benefit, by the way? We'll make sure our costumes don't clash," Lance said, stretching into a backbend that had Keith wincing.

"Please, stop doing that. And I haven't thought about colours. I… that's not my thing."

"Okay, cool, we can work on that. What, like, mood are you trying for? Like what do you want people to feel?"

"Um, happy, I guess? I want them to have fun?"

"Okay, so blue. Blue is a happy colour."

"I thought red was a happy colour."

"No, red is passion and anger and all that stuff. Blue is happiness," Lance corrected as he flattened onto his back on the ground.

"Blue is sadness.," Keith argued.

"That's an opinion." Lance rolled onto his stomach and arched his back, bending his legs until his feet touched his head.

"So is your idea about red not being happy."

"No, that's fact."

"But—"

"Anyways, we should get started," Lance said, clapping his hands together.

"What's on the agenda for today?" Keith asked, rolling his eyes and settling his notebook on his lap.

"We're going to learn about…" Lance paused for dramatic affect before splaying jazz hands around his face. "The art of imitation."

Keith blinked, "Imitation? Like, copying people?"

"Sort of. Yes. But!" Lance exclaimed, stepping up onto the bench next to Keith. "The more people you imitate, the more stuff you learn. You use that stuff you learned, and you personalize it. It's not really copying, just… borrowing."

"But you keep the skills you learned," Keith countered, staring up at the dancer. "That's stealing."

"Well, yeah but it's not stealing. You copy to learn the stuff and you combine multiple, uh, stuffs from multiple people you copy. And then you personalize it, so it's not copied anymore."

"So… it's a hodgepodge of different stolen skills," Keith said, looking suspicious.

"Uh, no. Yes, you keep what you learn, but you use it in your own way, so it's not stolen."

"That… makes no sense."

Lance grinned and put his hands on his hips proudly.

"And that, my dear pupil, is why you are the student and I am the teacher."

 **AN:**

 **Thanks for reading, have a good one!**


	14. Let's Get Down to Business

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **This chapter is dedicated to those in positions of power, or wish to be in positions of power, but don't feel confident about their position or their ability to pursue it. You got this. The worst they can say is no. The worst you can do mess up. The least you can do is try.**

 **Chapter 14: Let's Get Down to Business**

"You've got to be kidding me," Keith seethed. His hands curled into claws and his paintbrush clattered noisily to the floor, splashing blue paint across the floor.

"Mmph?" Hunk asked around a mouthful garlic bread.

"This is the— what, fifteenth time he's played this song? Today?"

"Despacito again?"

" _Despacito again_."

Hunk snickered behind his hand, rolling onto his stomach on his bed so he could watch Keith frustratedly attempt to paint emotion while listening to his soulmate's poor taste in music.

"But in Spanish. I'm not sure if that's better or worse," Keith said.

"Play nice," Hunk warned. "Speaking of playing nice, how're the dance lessons coming?"

Keith scoffed, reaching down to pick up his brush.

"They aren't dance lessons. I'm observing a fellow artist in his field of practice to better understand how one effectively portrays emotion through their form of art," Keith said, straightening in his seat.

"Practice that one in the shower, did you?"

"Shut up."

Hunk snickered and returned to his math homework, which he'd been neglecting in favour of literally anything else for the past few hours.

"This stuff is impossible. I mean, seriously, I know math is used in cooking and baking. I know this. But when am I going to use Pre-Calculus?"

"I thought you were taking Abstract Algebra?"

"Yeah and then I started failing miserably. Apparently, it's harder than Pre-Calc. I thought it would be algebra but, like… abstract, I guess."

Keith grinned at Hunk's embarrassed blush.

"You picked a random course without reading the description again, didn't you?"

"No, I read the description," Hunk countered defensively. Keith raised his eyebrow. "Okay, so I didn't read the description." Keith smiled, fondly shaking his head at his friend.

"You'll hack it. You're one of the smartest guys I know."

Hunk smiled softly at this and said, "You're the best, Keith."

Keith grinned and glanced up at some of the many paintings that hung from his wall, his bed, that lay across the floor. Ever since Lance had shown him how imitation of other people could help an artist find their own style, Keith had been focusing Carmen Guedez's work. Abstract work took a lot more thinking to figure out the story behind it, so the emotional effect of the painting had to be clear, but it was nice to not have to be exact. It was a good change of pace.

"Oh, wow, look at the time," Keith muttered, glancing down at his watch. In three minutes, he was supposed to be at a meeting for the benefit for Hunk. This was the first cohesive meeting and it would be an understatement to say that he was nervous.

"Hot date?" Hunk asked, pushing up the window to let in Lion. He shoved an empty bottle of olive oil under the window to keep it up as the cat slunk in, pushing his head against Hunk's arm.

"Ha, I wish. I have a meeting. With my professor. For art," Keith lied as smooth as a bag of week-old bagels. Hunk made a noncommittal grunt.

"You know, you don't have to make excuses to not hang out with me," Hunk said softly. His jaw was tense and his eyes on his homework as he petted Lion distractedly.

"What… what are you talking about?"

"This is the third time this week that we've been talking and you suddenly had to disappear to a meeting."

Keith blinked, thinking back as his face heated up. The first time was meeting his advisor about the fact that he had yet to take one of the two P.E. classes he needed to graduate, nor had he taken any of the maths he was supposed to have. The second time, he was meeting up with some of the students he'd talked to about the benefit. It was more of an interest meeting, whereas today's was a planning meeting.

"No, I'm not—" Keith cut off when his phone dinged. He had one minute until the meeting started, and two students had already messaged him in the group chat, plus a separate who had private messaged a question. "Augh, I'm gonna be late. Look, can we talk about this later? I'm really sorry, I just… I can't be late. I have a lot to... do."

"It's fine. You're busy, I get it," Hunk said pleasantly. Keith read right through it.

"No, seriously, we… we can talk about this later. My meeting should only be an hour."

"I have a three-hour class in a few minutes. It's whatever, man, I know you're busy. I can't expect you to drop everything for me. Sorry," Hunk smiled weakly, eyes a little too shiny for Keith's comfort.

"I… Hunk—" His phone went off again. Two more messages.

"It's fine, just go. You seem to have a lot going on," Hunk said, rolling onto his side and taking his math textbook with him.

Keith opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed yet again. He bit his lip and grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder as he began responding to the questions and concerns in the group chat.

"Okay, okay, I gotta go, but I'll be back. We'll talk about this, I swear," Keith promised as he backed out of the room. Hunk made no sign of having heard him, so Keith closed the door quietly behind him. Once it was shut, he shook his head and sighed, leaning against the wall. His phone went off again.

"This is why I can't be a leader. Ever," he said under his breath, looking down to his phone.

 **Jackson** : Wut time is the meetin? ( _sent 3:38_ )

 **Allison** : Where's the meeting? Rm 345 or 348? ( _sent 3:38_ )

 **Klark** : Do we hafto brin anything? _(sent 3:39_ )

 **Maxi** : Can I bring my roommate ( _sent 3:41_ )

 **Klark** : *bring _(sent 3:41_ )

 **Klark** : *have to _(sent 3:41_ )

"I need a co-leader or something." Keith grumbled, responding as quickly as he could to his messages while continuing to walk to the meeting he was now late to. He speed-walked down the hall, body-checking and shoulder-slamming every other person he passed because his attention was on texting the college students acting like children who couldn't solve their way out of a paper bag.

"I'm here, I'm here," Keith said, sounding grumpy even to his own ears when he entered the classroom.

"About time, fearless leader!" Maxi, an opinionated theatre major, piped up with a cackle. She was leaning back in her seat with her legs propped up on the table next to a huge box of donuts that was almost empty. The table was littered with coffee cups, loose papers and computers.

"Shut up, or I'll kick you out," Keith threatened with little heat. The room was full of chuckles for a minute as Keith took his spot at the head of the long table.

"I think we first need to discuss how we're getting permission to do this on campus," Lore said.

"Way ahead of you, L," Allison said, pulling up a document on her computer. "Keith asked me to talk to the Dean and a few other heads of staff. They're letting us use the big hill." A loud applause broke out through the room and Keith breathed a sigh of relief.

"They've also decided to make the weekend we're planning this for— which is two weeks from now, for anyone not reading their emails—to be 'family weekend,' so we'll have a much larger and more diverse crowd to cater to."

"That's great, Al, thanks," Keith said.

"It's a blessing and a curse, though." Allison warned. "Our audience will have a much bigger range in age, taste, and just about everything else. It might be hard to target everyone's specific interests, you know?"

"Oh. Right," Keith chewed his lip in thought. "We'll get back to that. Let's figure out where we're going now so we know how to change direction." Allison nodded and began typing away on her computer.

"Jackson, any word on tables and chairs?" Keith asked.

"We're allowed to use twenty tables and one hundred chairs. We have to ask permission for more. Which we might need, since it's family weekend, now."

"Good point. Is there any way we can find an estimate of how many people are coming?" Jackson nodded and began scribbling a note across his planner.

"Thanks. Marisol, status on the culinary side of things?" Keith asked as he peeked over Allison's shoulder at the notes she was making on her computer.

"It's looking a bit dicey, no pun intended. We'll have to buy all the food things we need, and we aren't allowed to use the school's machines and things. Something about warranties and liabilities." The girl sighed, tugging at a blonde curl.

"Damn," Keith said under his breath. "We aren't allowed to bring appliances in the dorms, right? So most likely, no students will have anything to let us borrow?"

"We can have dishes and things like that, but no mixers, toasters, fryers, and so on." Allison piped up.

"How many—?"

"Out of 2,057 students… 324 live off-campus." Allison said, fingers typing rapidly across her sticker covered keyboard.

"Great, can we send an email out to those people to see if they have any cooking equipment they're willing to let us borrow?"

"Emailing our trusty Dean to request contact info of off-campus students now, Chief."

"Good. How are the rest of our departments looking?"

"32 of our theatre majors and minors combined are ready to serve, oh fearless one," Maxi said quickly. "We're choosing productions now and we'll get back to you with a list."

"19 clothing designers and 17 jewelers ready and willing." Klark said, adjusting his thick glasses.

"9 flautists, 4 cellists, 2 harpists, 6 violinists, 10 pianists, 15 guitarists, 3 drummers, 5 trumpeters and 7 saxophonists."

"Wow. Thanks, Flora, and voice?"

"70 performers—"

"What!?" Keith exclaimed, rhythm thrown completely off by the number.

"The voice department is huge. Also, they're getting extra credit if they work at least two performances outside of class. We'll collaborate with orchestra and band for song selection and let you know what we pick."

"I see, and dance?"

"Overall, 42 dancers. Mostly contemporary and a couple tap dancers." Creeth said, flipping her fiery red hair with a proud smile.

"Perfect, we have dancers from a local studio planning something as well, they're area is ballet and… something else. And as for painter, we have 21 willing to make something."

"Wow, this seems to be really coming together, Boss," Jackson said with a winning smile.

"We're artists. We're built for making something out of nothing," Marisol responded.

Keith couldn't help but warm at Jackson's statement. He was surprised at how quickly things were falling into place, too. He expected a bigger fight for space on campus and time to do the benefit. He expected having to beg students to participate. But the student activity board gladly handed over things like chairs and event space. Students volunteered immediately to be part of the decision board for the event. Everyone was pretty much falling over themselves with willingness to help. But it was important to remember who the benefit was for.

Everyone loved Hunk. He was kind and had a warm personality that he shared with anyone who breathed in his direction. It was no wonder the event was so easy to plan. It had nothing to do with the student body being cooperative and helpful, or the team being organized and talented in their fields, or even Keith in being a surprisingly decent leader. It was all Hunk, who was all heart.

"By the way, is anyone having issues getting people to keep quiet about the benefit? Remember, this is supposed to be a surprise," Keith said.

"Stop worrying, Chief, it'll be fine," Allison promised. Keith nodded but couldn't follow her advice. Worrying was his specialty.

"Other things to address would be themes and colours and whatever. It's come to my attention that we can't just have a benefit. We have to have some kind of background theme going on," Keith said.

"Well, obviously, Chief."

"Yeah, for booths, costumes for performers, clothes—" Klark rattled off until Marisol bopped him on the back of the head to shut him up.

"Okay, okay, I get it, I should've thought of it earlier," Keith grumbled. "I was… I was thinking, maybe blue?"

"Blue is a happy colour," Maxi said. "I like it. I'll make sure our performances can be done with shades of blue."

"Good. And remember, it doesn't have to be an explosion of blue. It can be little things. Bandanas, shirts, belts, stuff like that. You don't have to wear all blue."

"Now where's the fun in that?" Maxi pouted.

"You can't wear too much of one colour, everyone knows that," Klark muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, thank you, Klark," Keith interrupted before Maxi's short and constantly burning fuse could transform into a raging forest fire.

"Next on the agenda is admission. What should we charge?"

"I think it would be unfair to charge people entry, and also charge them to buy things," Marisol said slowly.

"What if we charge entry, food and crafts people make, but don't charge them to see performances?" Keith suggested. "We have to charge somehow."

"I know, I just think we shouldn't charge entry. Or food," Marisol said quietly.

"What if we have a station with water and something simple, like popcorn, where we don't charge, but we have another station with things like funnel cakes that we do charge?" Jackson offered. "That way we aren't starving people, but we still make a little money."

"Good idea," Allison said. She began typing away the solution once she got the "okay" nod from Keith.

"Next up is booths. Outside of each department making or performing something, what do we want to have?" Allison asked.

"Since it's family weekend and we'll be getting kids, we should do face painting." Maxi said, jumping out of her chair. "I used to do face painting for this kid's camp I worked at over summer for like five years. I'm really good at it!"

"Okay, put face paint down, assuming Maxi can find supplies?" Maxi nodded vigorously.

"It was suggested to me that some musicians do mini lessons for people. Is that possible?" Keith asked Flora.

"Totally, I'll look into instruments we can share send out an email to ask for volunteers," the musician said with a grin.

"Thank you. Make not of that, please, Al."

"We could do games?" Jackson said, pen hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"We'd have to have prizes though," Allison pointed out.

"The prize could be also things we make. How many stuffed animal type things can the fashion people bust out?" Jackson asked.

"Oh, please. In two weeks? With our manpower, we can do 200 in our sleep," Klark said with a wink. Jackson looked away, chewing harder on his purple pen.

"I feel like that's an exaggeration, but we ca add that to our list. We can discuss number, type, colours, and such later. Anything else?" the room went silent. "That's fine. If anyone comes up with something else, just say so in the group chat."

"Wait, what about a few volunteers to guide people if they're looking for specific booths or something?" Allison piped up.

"Good idea. Non-performing kids should work on that," Maxi said.

"Smart. It'll make them feel more involved. More team-worky," Marisol agreed.

"I'll share a sign-up sheet split in hour-long blocks with all our volunteers," Allison said, typing quickly as she spoke. "Is that all then?"

"I think so," Keith responded. "Keep me updated on your progress with song and play selections. I want musicians, voice and theatre working together so your performances are a bit cohesive. Think happy, positive, hopeful kind of stuff. And Marisol, let me know if you get enough donated appliances and when you come up with a menu," Keith said as he peered over Allison's shoulder to see the notes she'd taken so far.

One document was fairly long and showed the departments that were working for the benefit with a list of students volunteering. Beside the names was contact information and a brief description of what the student planned to do for the benefit. Another document was shrunk down to a small square in the corner of the screen and detailed the problems they addressed, with different coloured marks beside each problem.

"Green is addressed and solved, blue is addressed and unsolved and we have no red because that was for unaddressed, unsolved," Allison said, tossing her head so her neat bangs swept away from her dark eyes.

"Wow, Al. You'd make a great secretary." Keith said, mildly impressed with his friend's organizational skills.

"Actually, I'm planning to be the one in need of a secretary," she said, elbowing his side.

"I'm all for the girl-power thing, but if there's nothing else, I gotta split," Maxi said, snagging a donut as she backed her way to the door, fingers of her free hand splayed in a peace sign by her face.

"Me too. I have a class in five," Klark sighed, pushing a stack of books and papers into his leather messenger bag.

"Ditto in ten," Marisol said. She grabbed a book from the pile between her and Klark before frowning at it. She shook her head and smiled fondly, pushing the book into Klark's bag and pulling a red textbook out her brother's bag. "This would be mine, good sir. Unless you suddenly took up Foods 211?"

Klark laughed in response, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. The rest of the room packed up and shuffled out efficiently, leaving Keith alone with Allison. She gripped her bright blue computer with both hands in front of her and turned to face Keith, who was struggling into his jacket.

"Um, Keith?" She said, wrapping her long, white scarf around her neck.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I… uh, I just wanted to say that this is really great. What you're doing. For Hunk."

"Thanks. He's… he's a good friend. I just want to help. Give back a bit, you know?"

"You're just friends?" Allison looked honestly shocked.

"Uh, yeah," Keith said awkwardly, glancing away. He felt like he was being asked if he was dating his brother.

"Sorry, it's not my business, it's just… the way you guys act is a little…"

"Over-friendly?" Keith prompted with a smile. Allison nodded timidly. "We get that a lot. We've just known each other for a long time, so…"

"No barriers," Allison smiled knowingly.

"Pretty much," Keith said as he and Allison made their way out of the room. "Hey, thanks for taking care of notes, today. I'm not really organized enough to keep track of that kind of thing."

"Nonsense, you guided the meeting pretty well. You have to be at least decent at organization for that," Allison said, turning off the lights and pulling the door shut behind them.

"No, no, I just… everyone already works so well together. If there had been any, like, disagreements or anything, I would've been at a loss."

"Keith," Allison said, stepping around in front of Keith to stop him. She smiled at his probably scared expression and put her hands on his shoulders. "There were disagreements. Some of them at things you wanted. And you handled it well. You're good at this. You can lead. You can help people."

Keith's expression must have been pretty good because it had Allison laughing. She let go of him and continued down the hall, turning a corner while sending a quick goodbye over her shoulder. Keith took a deep breath, still able to feel the warm imprint of Allison's hands on his shoulders.

 **AN:**

 **IDK if I'm allowed to promote people, but Carmen Guedez is an actual abstract artist. Check out her stuff, she's pretty cool and her art is poppin.**


	15. A Break

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **I'm posting this because I got bored. Also, it's really short, sorry.**

 **Chapter 15: A Break**

"I just don't see why we have to help this kid," James complained from where he slouched across the set of bleachers

Lance took a very deep breath, pulling on the strength of his ancestors not to lash out at James.

"I mean, we're distracting ourselves from our routines for our actual shows. You know, the things we get paid to perform for?"

The smug little grin on James's face broadened with the nods of agreement he got from another dancer. Lance gritted his teeth and made an ugly face behind James' back that had Allura snickering. She reached a bandaged hand up to pat Lance's bare shoulder before returning her hands to Lance's ankle, which was on her lap and waiting to be rewrapped.

"You know, I would suggest that you keep off of this, but I suppose there's no point in telling you that, is there?" she said.

"You know me, _coraz_ _ó_ _n_. I don't keep off of _anything_ ," Lance said with a sweet grin.

Allura snorted, tucking the edge of the bandage so it was more secure and wouldn't come undone after time of stretching and dancing.

"Seriously, though," Allura said, voice a bit graver as she squeezed her friend's calf. "IT might feel okay now, but it's going to give out eventually. No one's invincible, Lance. Not even you."

"Okay, _Mom_ ," Lance muttered, uncomfortably. He pulled his foot off his partner's lap and stood up, ready to put distance between him and her. He grinned when he only felt a slight twinge race from ankle to knee. "Thanks for the rewrap, Doc. It feels better already."

"You know what would make it feel even better? Staying off it," James pipped up, scooting down the bleachers to sit closer to where Lance stood. He leaned in so close, his coiffed hair brushed Lance's ear. Lance grimaced and leaned away, mostly just annoyed that James was right.

"I don't remember asking for your opinion," Lance said tightly, plopping down to tie up a chunk of his hair in a tiny, fluffy ponytail.

"You know, you should be a little nicer to the people who volunteer to help out with your little boyfriend's benefit," James said, following him when he leaned away again. Lance turned to face him, chin still down as he struggled with the bright pink hair tie and his hair.

"I'm plenty kind to the dancers who are kind to me."

"You know that saying about catching more flies with honey? I guess you do" James said, eyes and voice clearly hinting at something.

"Whatever, James. If you really think it's a waste of time, you don't have to be here," Lance snapped irritably.

James grumbled at the response he received and guzzled on his black water bottle to look busy. Lance rolled his eyes and dragged himself off the bench and to the center of the room where he had been coaching about the benefit routine before he had been forced to sit down and have his ankle wrapped.

The students were mostly having issues with Lance's request that they "feel" the music and try to tell the story of the song through their bodies. The song they had chosen was an adapted piano solo of a techno piece that sounded like how a sugar rush felt. It had a positive message that Lance wanted to preserve, but a slowed tone that brought the message to the surface better.

"Guys, remember what this song is actually about," Lance said loudly, feeling a bit exasperated with the disinterest of some of the dancers. He felt like he had been explaining how to go about what he wanted his dancers to do for hours, and the way the dancers slumped and sighed when he started speaking showed that they felt the same.

"We're talking about shelter. Shelter is about protecting something precious," Lance explained as he walked between the students, trying to make sure they were all actually paying attention. "It's a place where you feel loved and important. Try to keep that in mind and show that in your movement."

The crowd of dancers nodded and made vague sounds of agreement.

"Thanks, guys, that was really assuring," Lance said flatly. Allura snorted loudly behind her hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said as she recovered from her unexpected bout of laughter.

"No, you're not," Lance said. "Don't you have a rehearsal to get to?" he hinted impatiently.

"Nope," the woman said brightly. Lance gave her a look before turning to face his group.

He clapped his hands together and fixed a bright grin on his face, despite how heavy his body felt.

"Alright, guys, good work today. We're cutting this short because I know at least three of you are getting ready for the solos and lead try outs tomorrow. Work hard but remember to get some rest," he said walking around the room, weaving in and out of the students as they packed their bags.

"Get some food, get some sleep, get some TLC— if you know what I mean," Lance paused, quirking an eyebrow at the closest dancer who looked dead on his feet. The mousy boy looked down with a blushing smile, making it worth the energy. "Okay, peace out guys, thanks for your help!"

He was incredibly relieved when a good number of dancers were so willing to volunteer the little time they had that wasn't spent on dance and work. He was also thankful he wouldn't be letting Keith down. The guy just looked so worried that he wasn't doing enough for his friend, even though he was creating an entire event to give people a good time while raking in some cash for him.

And while Lance admittedly had not known Keith for a very long time, he knew the artist well enough to know for a fact that he was a bit of an introvert. Planning big events to draw large crowds of people and delegating big groups to get work done didn't seem like comfortable activities for Keith. And Lance was sort of… impressed? That wasn't the word. It was close to the word.

"Hey, Dancing Queen, what's with the face?" Lance turned his head so quickly, his neck popped.

" _Ow_ — oh, my God, I think I just broke something," Lance complained, hand going to cup his neck. Keith, the jerk who had just startled at least three years off of his life, had the gall to laugh.

"Sit down before you actually break something," Keith said roughly. Lance felt warm hands pushing down on his shoulders until he plopped on the hard-wooden surface of the bleachers.

"If I did, it'd be your fault, stupid Keith," Lance muttered, massaging the tight muscles in his neck that had protested so loudly. He hissed when his fingers pressed against a knot.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Why do you look like someone ran over your puppy?"

"I don't. It's just… normal dance stuff.

"You look like you haven't slept in two years. And like you haven't eaten for twice that." Lance cast a sleepy smile at his friend, who had settled on the bench next to Lance at some point in time that Lance couldn't recall.

"Uh. Yeah. That's pretty much all dancers."

"All artists, I think."

Lance nodded, wincing as his neck twinged. The dancer leaned back on his elbows against the bleacher seat behind him and tipped his head back with a sigh, rolling his neck carefully.

"But," Keith continued, "you look like death warmed over."

Lance bit the inside of his mouth to keep his tired, filterless brain from babbling. He lost the battle.

"Do you ever feel like you have to do everything?" He asked, feeling a disconnect between his brain and his mouth. Keith sighed heavily, mirroring Lance's position.

"Yeah. And like everything sort of depends on you? Yeah."

They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, Lance could hear the heavy afternoon traffic beginning to pick up: honking horns, growling engines, the occasional loudly shouted expletive.

"My dancers feel like my kids," Lance said suddenly. He couldn't stop himself from talking when he was this tired. Once he started, there was no stopping whatever came out.

"Like, earlier today, I had to order a girl to take a break because she'd been practicing for, like, ten hours straight. And one of our new dancers is trying to do every single performance we have running at the moment, and that's sort of… not what you're supposed to do."

Keith nodded vigorously in understanding.

"Yeah, I get that. I was planning the benefit earlier this week and I kind of feel like… Well, I basically talked this girl named Shana off the ledge. She didn't think the oil-painting she made to sell at the benefit was good enough, but I'm pretty sure it was more than that."

"God," Lance said, mildly concerned. "God, are we parents?"

"Jeezus," Keith muttered. He screwed up his face at that thought and tipped his head back like Lance.

"Ugh, there's so much!" Lance complained.

"So much," Keith agreed.

"And everything depends on it."

"Everything."

"Teaching dance…"

"Dance."

"And doing my own lessons…"

"Lessons."

"And working, and my family is a disaster, but even more, now," Lance turned on his side so he could face Keith, hands gesturing almost violently. "Like, my brother won't talk to me, and his girlfriend hates me, which I knew already, except they both hate me so much they got a new waiter. Like, what's up with that?"

"My roommate thinks I'm ignoring him and it's hurting our friendship, but I'm really just spending a lot of time trying to help out with the benefit— which is a lot more work than I thought, let me tell you— and I still haven't nailed this stupid showing emotion through art thing and the project is due soon…" Keith said this flatly. Lance looked over to him.

"We're a mess."

"I know. I'm so freaking stressed out over the whole art project… I just don't get it."

"Hey, don't sweat it man, we'll figure it out," Lance said, worry touching his voice as he sat up a little more.

"It's like, I hear it and I see it, but because I'm a complete moron who doesn't understand _feelings_ and _expression_ , I can't get it. I'm totally going to fail this class, but my scholarship is super strict with grades so if I fail this class—" Keith broke off with a choking sound. "Oh, God, if I fail this class, I'm going to lose my scholarship and I'll have to drop out—"

"Woah, woah, woah," Lance said, holding out his hands as if to calm Keith down. "First off, that's a lot of unloading for a guy who acts like he hates me. Second of all, who said anything about failing?"

"Me. I did. I just did. Because that's what I'm going to do. Fail. That's the thing I'm going to do because I can't… I can't…" Keith continued to ramble on faster.

"Woah, hey! Seriously, man, calm down. It's going to be okay," Lance put a tentative hand on Keith's trembling shoulder.

"It's not okay! I'm going to fail and lose my scholarship and I'll have to drop out! How is that okay?" Keith said impatiently, jerking away from Lance's touch.

"No, no— okay, I hear you, but that's, uh, that's not going to happen," Lance said, struggling to pull out the comforting words he knew were locked in his brain somewhere. He was lucky he pulled any words out, at this point.

"How do you know? How can you know? I'm so bad at this, there's no way—"

"Okay, if you keep going on like this, you're going to have a panic attack and we don't want that. Take a breath, man. Calm down for a second," Lance said, stubbornly putting his hand back on Keith's shoulder. Keith visibly struggled to suck in a breath, chest still heaving.

"Good, good. Another," Lance coached with only slightly slurred speech, this time, until Keith was breathing almost normally again. Lance hand dropped tiredly to Keith's wrist. He leaned back on his elbows again, hand still on Keith to help keep him from panicking again.

"Hey, let's just… not do dancing art things for a few minutes," Keith said suddenly, sounding a lot clearer. "Let's just…"

"Wait, what? You were just freaking out about that. We have to do dancing art things," Lance protested, lifting his head to look at Keith. "Those are important. For your school. I mean your letter. I mean your grade. That." Lance struggled to get up like a turtle stuck on its back.

"No, nope, uh-uh. Stop," Keith demanded, putting out his arm against Lance's chest to keep him from getting up. "Let's just sit for, like, five minutes and then go do dancing art things. We just need a break."

"A break," Lance muttered. They sat in silence and Keith didn't remove his arm. His words finally caught up to Lance's exhausted brain and he squinted, feeling a bit loopy.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, five minutes."

"Yeah."

"Benches are hard," Lance muttered dopily, feeling a heaviness settle on him as his body began to relax. "Bench hurts my head. Can I borrow your shoulder?"

"What?"

"I need a pillow. You have a shoulder. I sleep on your shoulder, and I get pillow," Lance explained to the best of his current cognitive ability.

"Oh. Cool. Sure." Keith's words were clipped, but Lance's tired brain wasn't computing, and he steamed on ahead with his request. He let his head drop off to the side, letting it collide with Keith's shoulder. The firm warmth eased his throbbing temples. He grimaced when Keith shifted and that shoulder nudged painfully against his skull.

"Move and die, mullet," he muttered. He felt the weight of Keith's head settling against his own before he heard a response

"Sure, Lance. Sure," Keith sighed without moving away.

 **AN:**

 **The song they're doing is called Shelter and it's fantastic! The piano solo arrangement is by Theishter.**


	16. Lancey-Lance Saves the Day

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Chapter 16: Lancey-Lance Saves the Day**

"No, those tables need to go by the food stations, but not too close. There has to be room for lines and I need someone to—"

"Hey, you. You look not busy, get busy by getting the flyers and finding people to stand by the entrance and hand them out so I can check on—"

"Hold up, why am I only counting two fryers, I was told there were three fryers. I expect there to be three fryers. Find another fryer, I have to help—"

"No, I heard you, what I meant was 'what do you mean you forgot the art piece you were planning to sell?' That's the whole reason you— okay, okay, no it's fine. Just go get it and come back. Run. Actually run!"

Keith collapsed breathlessly into a chair off to the side of the action after only thirty minutes or so of setting up the benefit.

Brightly colored tents were still being set up in even rows like houses on a block. The food stations were up first, so the smell of frying food and grilled meat filled the air. The space was full of volunteers in different shades of blue, all laughing and joking off like they were really having a good time, and Keith was happy people were enjoying themselves, but he was a bit concerned about time. They were starting in thirty minutes and weren't even close to being fully set up.

He severely underestimated how difficult day-of prep was. He figured they'd slap some tables and chairs on the hill where the benefit was taking place, they'd put up some tents and decorations, and that would be that. But they were on a hill, which meant that things didn't want to stay up and everything wanted to lean.

Also, people were late and that meant no one knew how many student-made works were going to be available to be sold and no one knew if there were going to be enough people present to be in the theatre or orchestral performances. This was particularly horrible because those two things were supposed to be a biggest part of the benefit.

They were also somehow down a fryer, which was bad because the culinary students had planned on having that third fryer when they figured out when to start cooking and how much food they would have to make per fryer to satisfy the large crowd they were expecting. Now, they would have to work much faster to get even close to making the amount of food needed.

Keith sighed, closing his eyes and tilting his head up towards the sun. He listened to the crackling sounds of fryer heating, the chopping of knives against cutting boards, the shouting between of people trying to keep one of the tents up, the banging of hammers against stakes being driven into the soil, and the sound of footsteps in the grass coming towards him.

"Hey there, Mullet!" a familiar voice crowed.

"A bit early, aren't you?" Keith asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

Lance and his dancers weren't supposed to be at the benefit until halfway through the event because they were going to be using the same stage as the theatre kids, so they couldn't set up before the theatre kids went on. There was no reason for them to come early.

"Yeah, thought we'd help out. I'm glad we did, too, it looks like you guys are a bit frazzled." Lance's voice was warm as if he found it endearing how unorganized Keith and his volunteers were.

"Everything's sort of… going wrong," Keith explained. "We're missing a fryer— which is ridiculous because how do you lose a fryer? Also, a surprising number of people aren't here, so I have no idea what's going to happen. And our tents won't stay up because we're on a hill and no one knows how to put up tents," Keith sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. "I thought it was going to be much easier than this."

Suddenly the light shining through his eyelids darkened and he opened them to find Lance leaning over him, dark hair a mess and sweat glistening on his skin from the hours of practice he must've already put in. He was wearing his usual outfit of a tank top and shorts, but they were shades of blue to be in theme with the benefit and there was a cheery yellow flower doodled on his baby blue shirt.

"At least there's sun," Lance said kindly with a little smile. Keith felt a bit of tension loosen in his shoulders as the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Yeah. There's sun."

Lance's smile brightened into his trademark grin as he reached out to Keith, who accepted his hand hesitantly. He was pulled out of his chair and turned around to see a crowd of at least thirty dancers behind him stretching against the nearby trees and doing little leaps and spins in the grass. It was like they couldn't bear to be still for more than three seconds.

"Wow. Are you guys all here to help?" Keith asked, realizing very self-consciously that all thirty-some of these dancers took extra time out of their busy days to help set up for the benefit, and he didn't know any of their names.

"If you'll have us," a red head said from where she sat in a split on the grass.

"Yes, we will absolutely have you, yes!" Keith exclaimed, earning a few chuckles for his overenthusiasm.

"Okay, fearless leader, what do you need?" Lance prompted.

"Well, is anyone good at technology… things?"

From the middle of the pack of dancers, a slim arm raised, barely able to be seen above all the other dancers. After some shuffling and a few lowly muttered expletives, the owner of the short arm made her way to the front of the crowd.

"Where do you want me?" the girl asked, readjusting the round glasses on her angular face.

"We want music playing during the benefit—"

"Give me two minutes, and you'll have your music. We brought our own equipment," the girl— Pidge, Keith remembered— said, gesturing for a few guys carrying black duffle bags and speakers to follow her. She disappeared into the mess of tents and tools and volunteers.

"Okay, then. Um, we need some help with the tents—"

Immediately, dancers broke off and bounded eagerly towards the art students that still struggled over the tents.

"Uh, the culinary majors could use some more hands—"

A clump of dancers separated from the group and scurried off to help, loudly introducing themselves to the cooks and fryers.

"We need these lanterns and strings of light to be put up in the trees. We have a ladder over— and you're already setting up the ladder. Good." Keith watched as a dancer quickly scaled the red ladder that stood tall in front of a towering oak and reached for a paper lantern handed up to her by another volunteer.

"Okay, balloons still need to get blown up and placed around the entrance—"

"These tables and chairs need to get set up ASAP—"

"And if someone could get the flowers from the horticulture students and put them in vases for each table—"

"Take these streamers and string them between the top of the tents—"

Keith spit out demand after demand and each job he handed out was snatched up by a willing and enthusiastic dancer who carried it out immediately. In almost no time, tents were up, and tables were set with vases of white and yellow daisies. Paper lanterns alternating between blue and white, and twinkling fairy lights hung in the trees, the speakers were played upbeat music, and there were bright balloons swaying by the entrance in large bunches.

The booths took a bit longer to prep because the volunteers had to wait for all the makers to show up, which eventually did. They explained that an accident on the highway had kept them in traffic for a while. Their pieces for sale were stunning works of art all kinds of different forms displayed proudly with the student's name, graduating year, and the artwork's title listed on little tags. There was no price listed so that people could pay what they were able to.

"It's really coming together," Lance said, appearing by Keith's side like he always did.

Keith gave him a grateful smile as he watched a dancer scold a group of students for playing volleyball with some of the spare balloons.

"Thanks to you guys."

"Lancey-Lance saves the day!" Lance exclaimed, fists in the air. while Keith rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, thank you."

"Eh, it's no big deal," Lance said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I figured it couldn't hurt to come early, even if you didn't need help. We at least wanted to be here to hang out. They're all pretty excited, practically bouncing off the walls before we left!"

"Over a benefit for a kid they don't even know?" Keith asked, a bit surprised. Maybe dancers were just an easily excited bunch.

"Well, we don't get out much. I mean, we get out, but only when we have work, or practice, or performances. We don't really get to do much else." Lance shrugged a bit wearily. "This is much more casual than they're used to."

"I— wow, okay, I just hope you guys have the fun you're expecting."

"Don't worry," Lance scoffed. "This crew could find fun in a library."

"Libraries can be fun," Keith protested, only half joking.

Lance cackled and patted that artist on the back.

"Bless you, Keith, bless you."

"Hey, are we letting them in or what?" a voice interrupted.

Keith turned to see Pidge with an armful of leftover streamers, gesturing to the crowd coming up the hill. "By the way, we found the other fryer. It was in the basement."

"Why was it in the—" Keith shook his head. "Okay, whatever, as long as it's been found. And, yes, you can let people in. Just make sure the greeters are at the entrance to hand out the flyers, so everyone knows what's going on."

Pidge nodded, quickly dumping the extra streamers behind a nearby tree and racing towards where people were beginning to gather.

"Time to open the house," Lance said with a grin

"Please don't let this be a disaster," Keith muttered under his breath, bending over to brace his arms against his thighs. Lance patted his back.

"It'll be great," Lance promised as they watched people enter the large space the benefit occupied.

Grandmothers were dragged along by toddlers, fellow college students guided their parents and siblings through the maze of tents, and most of the school's professors were teasing their students. The turnout was already more than expected but, then again, advertising was left to a rather excited and over-the-top Maxi Haggle, so everyone from California to Virginia probably knew about the event.

Honestly, there was never really a moment where he severely doubted that the benefit could happen, but there were certainly moments where he was pretty sure it wouldn't be enough of a success to make much of a change for Hunk. Now, he was beginning to think otherwise.

"Stop thinking that," Lance said suddenly, wagging his finger in the artist's face. "You're making that face. I know that face."

"What face?"

"The 'I suck, I'm not enough, I'm not doing enough, I'm not doing it right, something's wrong, etc.' face."

"What? I don't have a face for that" Keith protested self-consciously, looking away from Lance's piercing gaze.

"Yes, you do, and you're doing it now."

"Am not."

"Are so."

"Am _not_."

"Are _so_."

"Are so," Keith parroted to throw him off.

"Am— wait, I see what you did there!" Lance said with faux rage. Keith couldn't help but chuckle a little at his theatrics. "What you think that's funny?"

"Who, me? No. No way," Keith denied innocently.

"No, I think you think this is funny," Lance said as if he had this suspicion for a long time and it was just coming out that he had been right all along.

"Nope, not at all. Nothing about you is funny, Lance. Except maybe your face."

"Why you!"

Keith's breath caught for a moment when Lance jumped playfully onto his back, legs locking around his waist and one hand clutching his shoulder. Lance's free hand went straight for Keith's hair, ruffling the already messy locks.

"Really, Lance?" Keith complained good naturedly when he got air back into his lungs. He gripped Lance's legs for support.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this not funny to you, wise guy?"

"Jeezus, at least stop messing up my hair, it probably looks like a disaster now," Keith complained, shaking his head like a dog to try and get Lance's hands out of it.

"It already looked like a disaster. If anything, I helped fix it."

"Are you going to get down any time soon, or are you staying on my back for the entire benefit?"

"Oh, the second option, please," Lance said in his ear, warm breath sending a shiver down Keith's spine.

"Ugh, you're so demanding," Keith said gruffly.

"That's the price you pay to have a dancer as your friend. Now mush!" Lance demanded, patting the top of Keith's head like he was a dog.

Keith moaned and groaned about carrying Lance around, but found the weight of a friend to be grounding.

 **AN:**

 **Thanks for reading guys! As always, feel free to leave a request, a comment, a critique, a line about your day, whatever. I love hearing from you!**


	17. Shelter From the Storm

**AN:**

 **TW: mentions of sexual assault/abuse by a boyfriend, "on-screen" meet up with said (ex) boyfriend**

 **This deals with a tough issue and I want to treat it respectfully and be as authentic with it as I can, so let me know if you see anything offensive or inaccurate.**

 **Chapter 17: Shelter from the Storm**

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" a doubtful voice pulled Lance's attention from the child at the other end of his face painting brush. He knew immediately that the voice belonged to Maxi, the girl who was running the face paint booth.

"Shut up, I'm an artist," Lance said pouting theatrically. The toddler in front of him giggled.

"You're a _dancer_."

"What do you people have against dancers?" Lance asked, turning to face Maxi head on. "We're wonderful people. Mostly."

Maxi raised an eyebrow and sat down on a stool next to Lance, inspecting his young customer's face.

"Maybe we should stick you on another booth."

"Fine, fine. I'm on in thirty anyways, gotta gather my dancers," Lance said, handing his brush over to the master.

"I thought you guys had a hivemind."

"Wha- seriously? Hivemind?"

Maxi shrugged, stroking the paintbrush across a wobbly blue line Lance had drawn on the kid's face.

"We do not have hivemind, thank you very much," Lance sniffed.

"Could'a fooled me."

"Ugh. Theatre kids," Lance muttered under his breath as he began making his way through the crowd and the grassy field.

Some dancers already began clumping together by the stage, which had been set up for them after the last performance by the music kids.

"Okay guys, real quick, I just want to thank you all for being here. I know better than anyone how busy our schedules get, and it means a lot to me and Keith that you made time to help. Let's just have a good time with this one, yeah?" Lance said. "No competition, no scouts watching your every move, no customers that could get pissed after a bad performance— this is a family thing. Worse that could happen is a grandma harps on us for skimpy attire."

Grins chased around the circle of dancers as they bumped hips and knocked shoulders, almost like they didn't believe that competition, or a tough scout wasn't around the corner like usual. This was a change of pace, and Lance didn't think Keith had any idea how grateful the dancers were to have it.

Just then, Allison, the most organized art student Lance had ever met, got on stage and began introducing the dancers by name. They quickly made their way to the stage, waiting behind it as the music was put on and last-minute sweeping was done to the stage's surface.

"Let's have some fun guys," Lance said earning eager nods in response.

Once they heard that familiar sound of polite, expectant applause, the dancers skipped on stage, waving, cheesing and goofing off for the crowd. A few dropped into splits or did a few rapid pique turns, earning whistles and cheers for their efforts. At Lance's signal, they raced to their positions, pairing quickly with one person of each pair standing behind the other

Lance positioned himself alone in the center as the first notes played lightly over the speakers. The dancers that stood behind their partner wrapped their arms around their partner, curving their bodies over the other half of the pair. Lance wrapped his arms around himself and bowed his head, staring down at the smooth black surface of the stage below him.

When the music picked up louder and faster, dancers that were being hugged pretended to stumble and trip, only to be saved by their partners suddenly leaping out to catch them last minute by sliding directly under their partner's falling body or by throwing them in the air and catching them in their arms. Lance stumbled around the stage, forcing his normally trained movements to be graceless.

The music hushed and the partners began dancing in their pairs, looking in love, looking happy. Lance stayed in the center of the stage where he danced alone, imitating the pairs around him. When the music picked up, partners switched roles and the originally hugging partner was the one being held and supported.

Suddenly the music swelled and Allura appeared, moving gracefully in and out of the pairs that danced around her. Some pairs allowed her to join for a few seconds, but she eventually left, hopping to another pair, clearly unsatisfied with the ones she had been with. The music quieted and began building. Lance's attention was snagged on the upbeat of a sudden crescendo when he pretended to slip and was caught by Allura.

After a dramatic pause in the music, it picked up much softer and in a higher register as Allura and Lance began tentatively dancing together. They ended with Allura standing behind Lance, her arms tight around him with the dancers surrounding them in their own pairs.

After the music faded, it was silent. Lance and the other dancers heaved for breath, sweat trickling down their bodies like rainwater. Lance scanned the crowd quickly and found Keith standing near the back, away from the crowd (as usual). His eyes were practically bugging out of his head and his jaw was completely slack.

Then the applause started. Hesitant at first, and then roaring. Lance grinned as the dancers crowded into a big group hug while the audience cheered wildly. It was like they had won something after all.

"Wow, thank you, guys, that was fantastic!" Allison's voice filtered through the speakers that were back to playing upbeat music. As the applause and cheers wore down, Lance forced his wobbly body down the stairs of the stage, Allura and his crew in tow.

"Okay, can we eat now?" Allura asked, eyeing a booth of huge soft pretzels as she pulled her long, sweaty hair into a quick bun. Since most the dancers avoided eating a few hours before a performance out of nerves, it was understandable that everybody was starved.

"Yes, yes, you're free. Go eat," Lance grinned, shooing his dancers away. They split off in groups, joining up with art students they must have met while setting up for the benefit.

"Thanks for your good work, and remember we have practice early tomorrow; I don't care if you're vomiting up cotton candy— you _will_ be there, so don't make yourselves sick!" Lance called as they skedaddled off, on the hunt for fried chicken and funnel cakes. Lance shook his head fondly and turned to head over to where he last saw Keith but found himself smacking into a hard surface that turned out to be someone's chest.

"Oops, sorry!" he exclaimed with a flashing smile that melted as soon as he saw the face of the person he ran into.

"Lance! It's so good to see you again."

Lance felt a chill run through his core at the sight of those gleaming eyes giving him that familiar haughty look.

"I— um, I have to—"

"You always were so easily tongue-tied, weren't you, Lance?" Came that oily smooth voice as the man before Lance leaned in, his long white-blonde hair sweeping against Lance's cheek.

"Excuse me, Lotor," Lance bit out, clenching his fists to control his shaking. His stomach rolled like he'd cleared out the fried chicken stand himself.

"Just a minute, we haven't seen each other in so long. Don't you want to catch up?" Lotor asked with a gentle smile. Lance flinched when he found his back against a tree. He hadn't realized that he'd been backed to the edge of the benefit, away from the tents and the people. The witnesses.

"Dude, you… you really don't want to do thi—"

"Don't you think if I didn't want to do this, that I wouldn't be doing this?" Lotor asked, voice sharp. He always got so angry when someone tried to tell him what to do. Or if someone told him no.

"Seriously, this isn't a good idea. There's kids around here and—"

"Guess you'll just have to be quiet, huh?" Lotor whispered way too close to Lance's ear as he leaned in, arm pressed against the trunk above Lance's head.

Lance was attempting to babble out some threats when he felt a hand traveling down him. He squirmed out of the way, only to be trapped by Lotor's other hand. Lotor leaned even closer and Lance's line of sight to people was disappearing as quick as the breath leaving his body and suddenly there wasn't air and—

And then the shadow of Lotor's body above him was gone.

Bewildered, Lance glanced around to find Lotor on the floor with none other than Keith kneeling over him, a knee on the other man's chest to hold him down. Keith had one forearm pressed against Lotor's neck and the other arm held back in a fist, poised to punch.

"Say the word," Keith said through gritted teeth.

"I… what?" Lance asked, feeling his body shake like an earthquake was rattling beneath his feet.

"Do you want me to call security on him? You didn't seem… happy. With his behaviour," Keith said awkwardly. Lance continued to stare at him. "You started crying when he tried to kiss you."

Lance blinked. Sure enough, there were little drops of water spilling over his eye lids, blurring his vision. His face began to heat up, and his gut and chest started tightening, a sure sign that more tears were to come.

"Jeezus, are you— security! Hey, secur— yeah, take this guy out of here, please," Keith demanded.

Lance heard the jingling of cuffs and keys, and the soft static of walkie-talkies paired with Lotor's "aw, come on baby" and his "I didn't do anything, he's just sensitive." Lance clenched his teeth together to keep from crying any harder.

"Lance. Lance, he's gone. You can open your eyes now. He's gone. You're safe—"

"No, I'm not," Lance blurted out.

"What?"

"Not safe. He found me. After everything. He still found me. He—" Lance broke off, hand going to cover his mouth in an attempt to silence the sob welling in his chest. He gasped in a breath, trying to keep the tears down. He hadn't cried over this in a long time, and he really didn't want to today.

"Lance, open your eyes, man, he's go— I mean, he's not here anymore."

Lance hesitantly peeked open one eye, feeling like a child watching a scary movie.

"There you are. Hey, can we sit down?" Keith's voice was soft, but still held that gravelly tone. Lance watched his friend's face closely and lowered himself onto the grass. He felt Keith settle beside him at a distance that let them be close without touching.

"Do you… do you want anything?"

Lance would've laughed at the tension and awkwardness in Keith's voice had what just happened not happened.

"I don't want… I kind of need…" Lance sighed, stuck somewhere between feeling nasty and not wanting any touch whatsoever, but also needed a good solid hug.

"What is it? It's okay, don't feel like… don't feel like you can't ask me." Keith sounded so _honest_. Lance swallowed, cheeks heating up.

"Can you… can you hold my hand?" Lance whispered, not looking Keith in the eye. He flinched when fingers landed on the back of the hand closest to Keith.

"Stop holding onto the grass so hard and maybe I can," Keith said in a warm voice. Lance breathed a bit easier when his hand was squeezed by Keith's smaller one.

They sat in silence, listening to the cheery music, the laughter, the sounds of popping popcorn, the games being played. The air smelled like fried food and flowers and Keith. The grass was soft, and the afternoon was warm and fresh.

"That was, um, that guy was Lotor. Old, uh, old boyfriend of mine," Lance swallowed thickly, whipping his nose on the back of his wrist.

"Bad boyfriend?" Keith asked unnecessarily.

"Bad boyfriend."

"You... I mean, there's another bad guy that follows you. Back at the dance place." Lance nodded. "Do you… like, how do you get these guys?"

Lance felt his chest tighten again, his face heating back up.

"Like, what are my methods for attracting toxic relationships and creeps that treat me like trash?" Lance asked casually.

"Look," Keith said sharply. "I just mean that these guys are flocking to you—"

"And so, it must be my fault somehow? I'm the common denominator, right?"

"No, I just— I mean, you have qualities about you that… you know, might attract them!" Keith exclaimed defensively, leaning away from Lance like he was afraid the dancer might blow up in his face. Lance was probably about three seconds from doing so.

"Oh yeah? And what qualities would those be?" Lance challenged.

"I mean, you dress really… you know…"

"Slutty?"

"Come on, Lance, I wasn't—"

"If that's what you mean then say it. You think I'm a slut, right? That I'm asking for it?"

"You just… you invite it! Your personality is too friendly and open, plus you show a lot of skin. It's like you're telling them to come right on in and do whatever they want," Keith explained. "You should learn how to protect yourself."

"So I should wear more clothes, smile less, stop talking to people, learn how to fight… anything else? Any other changes you want me to make so that sexual predators might find me less appealing?" Lance asked. "I mean, people find me exotic, but I can't really change that. You know, my skin colour, and the place where my people come from, and the other language I speak."

"Lance, seriously, stop. I just mean that there are… precautions you should take."

"Oh, _precautions_!" Lance exclaimed. "When did you become the harassment prevention association, huh? Gonna start going around and telling girls to stop smiling and to not wear high heels so they don't get—"

"Lance, that's not what I mean, and you know it!" Keith said firmly, sounding almost angry. Lance eyed him closely.

"Do I?" he said quietly.

Keith looked at him like he had no idea how to respond to that. Lance stood up, pulling his hand out of Keith's grasp forcefully. He wiped the grass from his pants and began making his way back towards the tent.

"I'll let my dancers know I'm leaving. They all have rides arranged, so don't worry about them. They can take care of themselves."

 **AN:**

 **Just to be clear, victim blaming is never okay, Keith just really doesn't know how to handle conversations like this.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	18. A Good Move and a Bad Move

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **These are some tough times, my loves. Hang in there, everybody, things will get better! I'm here for you, and I know that's easy to say from behind a screen, but I'm serious. If you guys need a word of support, or a fic to give some happy thoughts, your friendly, neighborhood Eb with the good vibes is here.**

 **Okay now read and have fun (sorry to disappoint but our boys aren't getting back together in this one)!**

 **Chapter 18: A Good Move and a Bad Move**

Keith wasn't good at people. He also wasn't good at talking. Every time he opened his mouth, things came out too harsh, or just not at all what he meant, and any added pressure just made it 1000% worse. Added pressure like finding a friend being attacked or whatever was happening to Lance, for example. Keith was pretty certain that he had ruined everything when he opened his fat mouth.

The benefit had been a hit, at least. Hunk made an appearance when he tripped on stage, started crying when he tried to thank everyone for putting on the benefit, and fell into Keith's arms dramatically with praises and thanks galore. He was obviously touched, even though the proceeds hadn't yet been counted.

But Keith still felt like he'd lost somehow. The way Lance looked at him before he stormed off, the way he said that his dancers could "take care of themselves," the look in his eye… Keith had never felt shittier.

Shaking his head, Keith forced himself to put those thoughts away, for now. He had a benefit to clean up. He could through a pity party later.

Glancing around in search of something to do, something productive to distract his focus, Keith noticed the twinkling lights casting a warm glow in the tall trees surrounding the benefit space. He made a beeline for the ladder used to put them up, hoping that taking down the lights would keep his mind off of things, that his thoughts wouldn't have the space for Lance.

The smooth, aged wood of the old ladder was comforting in his hands, and he distractedly rubbing a thumb at a chipping spot of flecked paint while he looked for someone to help hold the ladder and keep the lights from get tangled.

"Pidge," Keith called, noticing the girl standing near a trashcan, which was overflowing. She was talking pretty passionately with a guy Keith had never seen before.

"… not your freaking messenger pigeon," Keith heard her hissing through clenched teeth when he got closer.

"Katie, please. _Please_. I have to know, I—" the guy said in a tired voice.

"Then put on your big boy pants on and ask him yourself," came Pidge's unsympathetic response. Keith stood awkwardly, stuck between butting in and looking rude, or staying quiet and looking like he was eavesdropping.

"He won't talk to me. You know that," the guy said, voice pleading.

"You don't even give him the chance to—" Pidge stopped the moment she finally saw Keith. "Oh, hey, Keith."

Keith felt his face heat up, feeling oddly guilty.

"Uh, hey, Pidge and… um…" Keith glanced sideways at the guy who was dressed in a sharp looking suit, hair slicked with gel. He looked like a lawyer or something.

"This is Luis," Pidge supplied helpfully, gesturing weakly at the guy beside her.

"Hi. Uh, I'm Keith. Yeah," Keith said, thumb scrapping at the flecking paint on the ladder again.

"He's one of Lance's older brothers," Pidge supplied. Keith caught the glare Luis sent her.

"Oh, you're probably looking for Lance then—" Keith said, trying to be helpful.

"No!" Luis exclaimed. Keith squinted. "No, I just…"

"Did you not come to see him?"

"I-I came because I wanted to help. I can sort of identify with your friend, Hunk," Luis scratched the back of his head self-consciously. "I, uh, put myself through college and money was tight, so… I can appreciate what you're doing for him. You've, uh, you've done a good thing."

"Oh. Well, thanks, man," Keith said. Pidge snickered behind her hand, earning a nudge from Luis.

"I wish your friend the best of luck. Have a good night," Luis said quickly, nodding to Keith and Pidge before turning to power walk down the hill.

Pidge and Keith watched Luis's retreating back slump as he got further away from the benefit.

"To say they have a rocky relationship would be an understatement," Pidge said, gripping the trashcan and shoving a foot into it to push the overflowing garbage down.

"They don't talk?" Keith guessed, leaning against his ladder and watching Luis far away body heave with an obvious sigh.

"Luis gets really… protective. He tries to tell Lance what to do, thinks he knows what's best because he's older. Lance is stubborn. He doesn't like to be controlled."

"How big is Lance's family?" Keith asked curiously, reaching out to steady the trashcan for Pidge to put both feet int it and push the trash down without falling over.

"Yikes, give me second… let's see, he's got two older brothers, an older sister, both parents, a grandmother, lots of cousins, and nieces and nephews. I have no idea how many, though. I don't even think he knows how many he's got," she said, not sounding like she was joking.

"I…" Keith laughed quietly. "I can't imagine a family so big you lose track of how many cousins you've got."

Pidge nodded.

"Me either. For a while it was just me and my mom," she said, gripping Keith's shoulders to pull herself out of the trashcan, and Keith pulled her up by her elbows to help. "My dad and brother are scientists and they sort of disappeared after being sent on an expedition a couple years ago."

"Did they come back?" Keith asked, heart stopping.

"Yeah. Well," Pidge said, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. "I kind of ran away to go find them. It's complicated. The point is that I get you."

"Did you ever…" Keith swallowed hard. "Did you know, feel like you knew they weren't coming back?"

"Never, " she said firmly, "that's why I went looking for them. Nothing could keep me and my family apart."

"Then, I'm sorry," Keith said slowly. "But you can't get it."

"Oh. Sorry." Pidge cocked her eyed like she was sizing Keith up.

An awkward silence sat between them, only the chatter of the clean-up crew filled the emptiness. Keith swallowed hard, feeling like Pidge deserved some sort of explanation.

"My, uh, my mom was in some anti-military thing," he offered. "She was called back to the field when I was four. She was killed in action. A year later, my dad died in a fire."

Pidge's expression was appraising before it became calculating.

"That guy you drew, the one Griffin made fun of… that wasn't your boyfriend, was it?"

"How the hell—" Keith said after a minute, a little put off.

"Intuition," Pidge said with a shrug. "Tell me about the guy?"

"He was all I had after my dad. But he's not around anymore, so..."

"That seriously sucks," Pidge said, looking down to tie the trash bag in the can between them. "But you have Hunk. You have me. You have Lance."

Keith felt even heavier after hearing Lance's name.

"No. No, I don't have Lance," Keith said thickly.

"What do you mean?"

Keith lowered tensely into a stray chair that hadn't made it into a stack, the ladder leaning against his side.

"Lotor—" Pidge dropped the trash bag and gagged. "Are you okay?"

"Did you just say 'Lotor'?" she demanded; voice raspy.

"He showed up and harassed Lance— don't freak out, I called security."

"He didn't tell me," Pidge said, looking pissed. "Why the hell didn't he tell me? He always tells me about these things, what the actual hell?"

"Uh, it may be my fault," Keith said weakly. Pidge glared at him, and he talked faster. "Um, I talked to Lance, but I accidentally made it sound like he attracts creeps like Lotor and Griffin— but I didn't mean it like that, I just meant that he should be more guarded. I didn't mean… I didn't mean he had to change. He shouldn't. He shouldn't change."

Pidge was silent for a minute and Keith watched with fascination as a number of emotions passed over her face. She went from angry, to calculating, to almost happy. Then her smile looked triumphant.

"You messed up," she said, hands on her hips and mischievous grin on her face. It was like she was taunting him.

"I messed up."

"I'm about to make it worse for you," she said almost gleefully. She leaned over him. "The judges told him the same thing."

"The what?" Keith asked with another sinking feeling.

"When things got out of hand— got further out of hand— he took Lotor to court. Judges said Lance should cover up more, made him look like a prostitute dragging men down into the 'wrong path.' As in being gay."

"You're kidding me," Keith pleaded, groaning when Pidge shook her head. "I messed up. I really messed up. And he'll probably never speak to me again. Great."

"Just give him space," Pidge said calmly, waving a hand like she was pushing away Keith's concern. "Either he'll sort of get over it enough to talk about it, or he'll start missing you too much to stay away."

"Missing m— are you sure?"

"Obliviously," Pidge muttered, rolling her eyes. "What was it you needed help doing, by the way?"

"What?"

"You came over here when I was talking with Luis. What did you need?"

"Oh, can you help me get the lights down? Just stand at the end of the ladder and catch the lights to help make sure they aren't tangling."

"You got it, boss," Pidge said with a mock salute. Fireflies leapt up from the grass as they made their way to the nearest tree.

Pidge held the ladder steady as Keith climbed up, reaching for the first strand of lights, feeling a little dazzled by the brightness in comparison to the darkening sky.

"How long have you known Hunk?" Pidge asked suddenly.

"Oh," Keith paused in handing down a strand of lights to think. "Uh, we met in middle school. Seventh grade gym class. I've been close with him and his family ever since."

"I figured there's more than just a roommate thing between you guys. I mean, you did this whole benefit so he could stay at school. That's more than a normal roommate would do." Keith shrugged in response.

"Someone had to—"

"Keith!" came another voice from behind him.

Keith turned around on the ladder so quickly, he just barely managed to catch himself from falling.

"Christ, Hunk, you gave me a heart attack!" Keith scolded, seeing his friend racing towards him.

"Sorry, I just—" Hunk sniffled. "I'm just so thankful and—" he broke off to blow his nose in one of the many crumpled tissues in his hands.

"Dude, don't worry about it," Keith said over his shoulder, reaching up for another strand of lights. "We don't even know how much we got. It's probably not even enough to cover a semester—"

"Keith, you big lug, get down here," Hunk demanded, stamping his foot in the soft grass. Keith glanced to Pidge with quiet concern, but she was watching Hunk with something akin to morbid fascination.

"What did I do? What—" Keith's voice cut off once he was halfway down the ladder because Hunk grabbed him in an incredibly tight hug. "O-okay, big guy."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," Hunk chanted into Keith's shoulder as he swung his roommate's body around.

"It wasn't a lot, I know it wasn't a lot. I mean, it'll help, but not—"

"Keith, shut up!" Hunk exclaimed. Keith saw Pidge begin to make a careful retreat from them. "I just… you did this for me. I thought you were being distant and that you hated me and— and— and you were just trying to help and keep it a surprise because you're a really good person and—" Hunk burst into another fit of sobs.

"Woah, hey, man. It's… it's okay," Keith awkwardly patted Hunk's shoulder. He was eventually set back safely on the ground and shook his limbs to get the blood flow back.

"Keith, I—"

"If you're going to thank me again, please shut up," Keith said kindly. Hunk grinned, used to his friend's way with words. "Look, I'm glad you're touched, but this isn't… what I'm trying to say is I didn't want—"

"I love you to, bro," Hunk said warmly, voice trembling a bit with emotion. "And I'd miss you too, if I had to leave."

"Yeah. That. That's what I wanted to say."

"I know."

 **AN:**

 **Stay safe guys!**


	19. Apologies for the Scary Demon Gay

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Good luck to everyone on exams and papers and rituals and projects!**

 **Ch19- Apologies for the Scary Demon Gay**

Lance managed to control his wince when he landed a bit heavier than planned. Thankfully, the floors of the stage were a flexible wood that had some springiness. Still, his movements felt off. Heavy, jerky, sharp. Thank God he was dancing with an empty house.

Performing in front of all those empty seats was a strange experience. It was like a step up from practicing, but a step down from performing. The air wasn't as densely and positively charged as it was when there was an audience expecting to be wowed, but it wasn't as familiar and loosely packed as it was in practice rooms behind walls and mirrors that separated dancer from world.

As Lance spun and leaped across the stage, crewmembers worked around him. They tested the stage lights, bathing the floorboards blue, then green, then purple, then pink, making Lance feel like he was dancing in a kaleidoscope. They played through a few soundtracks, which was like playing Russian roulette with genres: pop, classical, jazz, rock, opera. The curtains behind him rose and fell as the heavy, velvet fabric was dusted clean.

Despite the chaos around him, Lance was focused. He kept his steps neat, circles tight, arms bent, toes pointed. He was only jarred from his focus when he heard a sharp intake of breath. Lance glared in the direction of the unwelcomed sound.

"House lights!" Lance demanded, eyes searching the audience seats.

After some discontented grumbling from the techies, the chandeliers above the plush, red audience seats blinked to life. The room grew with house lights illuminated.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lance asked, voice echoing. Keith blinked up at him, gaping like he'd never seen a man on a stage before. Lance came to the edge where his gear sat and plopped down, legs dangling into the orchestra pit.

"I wanted to talk to you—"

"Can you do that later? I'm kinda busy," Lance snapped, grabbing for his water bottle.

"It'll take two seconds," Keith said. Lance glanced up sharply when he heard the pleading tone in Keith's voice.

"Hurry up, I have a show tonight," Lance said, slipping out of his shoes and rubbing the soles of his worn-out feet with his chin resting on his knee

"It looks like you could use a break," Keith said, sounding hesitant. He was still standing in the alley between two rows of seats with his hands clasped tightly.

"Yeah, well, I don't have that luxury. I have a performance tonight, and I still can't get the damn timing down." Lance sighed as he rested his forehead on his kneecap. "This is just really a bad time. Can you come back next week?"

"Next week? I thought your show was tonight?"

Lance snorted.

"We perform a show every night for a while. And I have multiple shows."

"Sounds exhausting," Keith said slowly, taking a few steps towards Lance.

"'Aint no rest for the wicked," Lance said with a sardonic grin.

"You're far from wicked, Lance." Keith said that like there was actual weight to his words. Lance had to laugh.

"Shows what you know," Lance said with a scoff. "I'm just a slut who willingly invites strange men into my life." Lance looked up from his knees to inspect his wrist. He'd fallen awkwardly out of a difficult turn and the muscles had been throbbing ever since, even with the hours of icing and Advil popping.

"Yeah, about that…" Keith bit his lip, scratching the back of his head. "That's not what I— hey, are you okay?"

Lance swallowed a second yelp as he stretched his wrist.

"Fine. Twisted it," he said, holding it close to his chest.

"Are you sure? Let me—"

"Let you what?" he spit, making Keith reel back. "Do what you want with me? Make decisions about my wellbeing— about my body— for me, without my say? Like all those men you think I ask for attention from, those men you blame me for attracting? Well, guess what, _pendejo, es_ _mi vida_!"

Lance's chest heaved and his wrist absolutely _screamed_.

"Lance," Keith said quietly. Lance flinched when his friend's voice broke. "Lance, I didn't mean that you're… that you're a slut."

Lance reluctantly met his eye, which seemed to encourage him.

"I know you're not one, and I know that what you do in your time isn't my business, especially when it comes to, you know, labeling it," Keith said, fiddling with his hands. "That would be pushing my values and morals and stuff on you, and that's not fair because our morals and values aren't the same."

"Not that yours are wrong, of course!" he continued, words tumbling a little faster. "Just different. Than mine. Which aren't wrong, but aren't right either. Because, you know, values are subjective."

Lance briefly wondered if Keith had practiced this in front of a mirror but, judging by the state of his messy hair, he didn't think Keith owned one.

"I only… geez, I only said that because I was trying to tell you that, you know, life isn't fair, and you have to protect yourself from things you shouldn't have to worry about. I just thought that if you acted more distant and didn't dress to, uh, accentuate your, um," Keith glanced at Lance out of the corner of his eye, "um, body… then people wouldn't notice you and would be less likely to hurt you."

"So, you still think I should change," Lance tried for a biting tone because he wanted to be mad. Keith told him to change so he'd an easier pill to swallow, so perverts wouldn't take advantage of him, so no one would notice him. But this "staying mad at Keith" thing was impossible. Especially with those sad puppy eyes and the clear concern for Lance.

Keith dropped his heads in his hands with a groan, quickly pulling Lance out of his thoughts.

"No, no, this is coming out all wrong. Again. You shouldn't have to change. If you did, I'm sure you would get less noticed so these _guys_ might be less all over you, but that's not your fault." Keith sounded more frustrated with himself than Lance was. "That's my point. You shouldn't… you shouldn't have to change and it's not your fault."

Lance felt something ease in his chest, which he hadn't noticed was tightening like a screw.

"You don't have to change. I don't want you to. You're per— uh, good the way you are." Keith dragged his palms down the front of his jeans. "What I'm trying to say is that I'll, um, protect you, so you can just be you and, well, do your thing, I guess, and I'll be there to help you. If you need it. Not that you will. Just… just saying. In case."

All Lance could think of was when he was felt up on a bus at thirteen, then kicked the pedo in the balls, got off the bus, and walked the rest of the five miles home. When he was grinned at, whistled at, gestured at. When he flipped the bird, stomped on feet, kicked balls, and punched noses. When he walked home in a pack, wore long sleeves and jackets in the heat of summer nights, learned what pepper spray was.

"I…" Lance trailed off, wrist still clenched to his chest and still throbbing with the strain it had taken to stretch it even lightly. He tried to form words, half desperate for independence.

Then he thought of Pidge, who called out the people who tried to mess with him. His sister, who gave him a whistle in his first week of high school. His oldest brother, who promised to always be willing to drive him home when it was late.

"I can take care of myself," Lance said quietly.

"I know!" Keith said almost frantically. "I know, and that's why I said I would help. I won't tell you what to do, or… I'll just be, you know, back up."

"I do fine on my own," Lance said, regardless of how badly he wanted to believe Keith.

"I know you can protect yourself, but maybe with me on your side, you'll be even more protected." Keith was babbling.

Usually when people babbled at him, they were talking to dancer, teacher, crowd pleaser Lance. The star struck eyes and loopy grins and kind words made Lance want to deserve that joy and raw, raw reverence, but this was different. This babbling was for Lance the person.

"So, was it Pidge?" Lance guessed, rolling his shoulders and neck, gaze shifting to the ceiling.

"Sorry?"

"Was it Pidge? Who told you whatever it was that got you here?"

"Oh. Yeah." Keith dragged a foot against the velvet carpet like he was trying to feel it through his shoe. "So, you took Lotor to court, huh? Brave."

"Oh. She told you _that_." Lance clutched the light fabric of his top. "Yeah, that was after I moved out of my parents' place. Never told anyone besides Pidge. There's a lot of things I would've had to explain if I told… Well, I lost, anyways, so it doesn't matter."

Keith didn't seem to know how to respond to that, just watched Lance with blank eyes.

"Pidge, uh, Pidge told me what they said to you. About you. The judges," Keith finally said, voice barely above a whisper. This time it was Lance who didn't know how to respond. Then he decided the silence was worse than talking and spoke up.

"Yeah." His voice was too loud to his own ears. "Yeah, sorry, I overreacted at the benefit. You just, you know, reminded me of… that," Lance sighed. "I mean, that's not an excuse. You know, being told by the court that I'm a slut who's seducing good men into a horrible life of gay sex like a big scary demon gay—" Lance was interrupted by a snort from Keith.

"Sorry, just… scary demon gay," Keith snickered. "There's literally nothing scary about you." Keith's laughter swallowed his words.

"Wha— I can be scary!" Lance protested, but Keith only laughed harder. "That's just rude. I'm trying to have a moment here."

Keith waved a hand at him, still a little breathless from laughing.

"Anyways, it's not an excuse, but it's an explanation. I'm just a bit, I don't know, sensitive? Like, when people tell me what to do." Lance sighed. He really wanted to change the topic.

"No, no it's valid. It's more than an excuse, it's a really valid reason," Keith said, managing to sober up for a second. His composure broke as quickly as it was reformed. "My apologies to the scary demon gay."

Lance gasped theatrically, hand jerking to his chest like he'd witnessed a scandal.

"Was that an apology? Oh, my goodness!" Lance exclaimed. Keith lurched back a bit, looking oddly fearful. Lance quickly amped up the ridiculousness. "Keith just apologized. We need to record this moment of history we just witnessed— hey, camera cuties! Were you rolling? Tell me you were rolling!"

Keith snorted as half the camera crew broke into peals of laughter, the rest aggressively flipping Lance off. Keith must have felt like the Lance-bomb had been safely deactivated because he came close enough to the stage that Lance could see his eyes.

"Dude, what did you do to your feet?" Keith asked, looking mildly horrified. Lance glanced down at the calluses, blisters, and scrapes that dotted his bare feet.

"Oh, you know, work hazards," he said with a grin.

"Jeezus, you dancers are kind of hard core. Is that blood?" Keith said more to himself than Lance as he leaned in to inspect Lance's apparently bleeding foot.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer. I charge fifty per shot, though," Lance joked.

Keith gave him an unimpressed look and awkwardly threw a leg over the edge of the stage and rolled himself onto it. Lance was almost impressed with how little grave Keith contained in his body. Then Keith sat next to Lance, holding out his hand.

"Can I see your wrist? Please?"

Lance looked down at the open hand, traditionally a gesture of welcome and good intention. Rationally, Lance knew that Keith probably wasn't going to break his wrist or something crazy like that. He was just trying to help. Lance didn't know which was worse.

It wasn't like he needed Keith's help, but Keith seemed sickened by Lance's wrist. It wouldn't hurt to let Keith take care of it just this once. Lance could go back to being fully independent later. He stretched out his arm, placing the sore wrist in Keith's smaller, paint stained hands.

Keith gave him a smile that was so small, Lance wondered if he'd only been wishing for it. Warm hands gently grasped his arm, carefully turning it this way and that. Lance felt like a work of art being carefully examined so it could be appreciated at each angle. He was also very distracted by the way the stage lights suddenly turned a romantic, light pink. He looked up at the techies with a tight mouth and a pleading expression, only to receive a friendly thumbs up in response.

"I have a little experience with hand and wrist injuries from overworking. In case you're wondering," Keith said suddenly, startling Lance from mouthing increasingly inappropriate curse words at the techies.

"Experience?"

"I'm an artist. We're a combination of over-achievers and complete procrastinators. We start our projects late, and then spend days and nights straight doing nothing but work until it's perfect. We're used to wrist strain."

"Huh," Lance said, imagining a sleepy Keith leaning over a canvas with a brush in hand and more paint on himself than the canvas. "The more you know."

"Looks like it's just a bit strained. I know some massages and stretches that could help. I mean, I'm sure you do too. Like, I know you can do this for yourself, I was just thinking—"

"Keith," Lance said with a fond smile. "I'm not going to yell at you for wanting to massage my wrist. I'm always down for a good massage. They're so…" Lance leaned in, " _intimate_." He cackled when Keith blushed bright red.

"Just for that, I'm not helping you," Keith muttered, dropping Lance's wrist back on the dancer's lap. Through his laughter, Lance let out a squeak when a hot twinge raced up to his elbow. "Shit!" Keith exclaimed, and warmth encased Lance's aching wrist again.

"It's fine. It surprised me more than it hurt," Lance lied, waving away Keith's worries with his free hand.

Keith shrugged and began kneading Lance's wrist with touches softer than butterfly wings or flower petals or something else equally as pretty and soft. It burned at first, but the tension eventually slipped away and his wrist began to tingle pleasantly. Keith dragged his thumbs down from Lance's wrist to massage his palm.

Keith was silent, so focused and quiet that Lance wondered if he was mad at him. Keith had every reason to be mad. Lance took something said with good intention and blew it out of proportion. And then he ignored Keith, who was probably trying to find him to apologize or fix whatever had happened between them. He probably still didn't really get it, and he'd be less mad if Lance just explained everything. It would dig up old, dry dirt, but it would make Keith not mad anymore, so—

"I'm sure you're confused," Lance said suddenly, startling himself. He glanced at Keith to get a read off him, afraid to disturb the fragile peace. "You're wondering why someone who, you know, dealt with bad people would be so… I don't know, friendly? Chatty? That sort of thing. You expect me to be guarded, right? To learn from the past."

"I mean, I wondered," Keith admitted, looking up at Lance through a thick curtain of hair. "But I didn't think you'd tell me. And that it would just piss you off because it's a shitty thing to ask."

"Well, I'm telling you," Lance said to hold himself accountable and actually do it. "I uh—"

Lance bit his lip. He just had to pretend he was talking to Pidge, the only human being who could ever pry information from him without hurting him.

"Okay, in my family, I'm the youngest of four," he started, scratching at the side of his thumb. "I have plenty of nephews and nieces and cousins so you have to holler to be heard, in my house, and even then there's always a crying little cousin, or whatever. You know?"

"So, you talk a lot and you're annoying because you want attention?" Keith said with a tentatively joking smile.

"No, no, no," Lance laughed, incredibly relieved by Keith's lighter mood. "I get plenty of attention here."

"So, getting a lot here makes it means less?" Keith guessed.

"No, no," Lance said, grabbing the hand that was massaging his palm. "This place is my home. Its people are my family. But they aren't my blood, so it's different. In a way, they chose you, so it's kind of a compliment, but on the other hand…"

"But, on the other hand, everyone wants their parents to be there for them."

"They're there for me," Lance said quickly, waving his arms so violently as he defended his family that he knocked his water bottle into the orchestra pit. "I mean— no, bottle, come back!"

Lance reached with grabby hands downward towards the pit in vain. There was no way he could reach his bottle from the stage, unless he laid down on the aged wood and stretched to reach in. Thankfully Keith was willing to and swiped the bottle up, handing it to Lance.

"Oh. Thanks," he said, not sure why he was so taken aback. "As I was saying before gravity so rudely interrupted, my family is definitely there for me. I see them on holidays, and I spend weekends at the house sometimes—"

"That's not being there for someone," Keith said, bumping his shoulder against Lance's. "If you're always the one having to go to them, and you only get their time when it's scheduled… I mean, if they aren't there if you suddenly get injured, if you're sad because of a breakup or a bad show—"

"I _never_ have a bad show," Lance said, pointing in Keith's face. He snorted when the artist went cross-eyed to follow his finger.

"My point still stands. If they're only there when it's… convenient…" Keith said the word softly, like it was a blow that he didn't want to deliver.

"Well, I mean, I'm an adult now. They probably hoped things would be easier now that I'm, you know, an adult."

"Things don't get easier when people grow up. They get harder."

"One can hope." Keith didn't seem to have a smart line for that, so they settled back into silence again.

Glancing at the time on his phone, Lance realized he was going to leave for work in half an hour. But that meant he'd have to ditch Keith and they had just made up. Lance wasn't sure what it was about Keith, but he was basically catnip for Lance. It was probably because their pseudo-friendship was still new and tentative, so it was natural that he wanted to be around Keith more. But he couldn't just ask to hang out. Keith was clearly not the "hanging out with friends" type. More like the "locking self in room to paint for three days straight" type.

And that's when a brilliant (stupid) idea popped right into Lance's head. A way to get a bit more of Keith's time, at least for now.

"Hey," Lance said suddenly, running with it.

"What?"

"I have an idea."

"Oh no."

"It's a good idea," Lance pouted, hands on his hips.

"Why do I not believe that?"

"Because you're a jerk," Lance said, ignoring the offended look he got from Keith. "My idea is that, to make up for being a meanie at the benefit, you give me a grand tour of your school. It'll be fun! I can stay the night and we can bake cookies and braid each other's hair and sing duets…" Lance played up the request with puppy dog eyes, but Keith just watched him grumpily.

"Why would you want to do that?" Keith said with not enough "grump" for Lance to really believe he was completely against the idea.

"Uh, because it's fun? Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" Lance said, wrinkling his nose.

"There's nothing fun about my school."

"The fact that you think that is enough evidence for me to know that your school is awesome and hecking fun."

Keith gave him a glare, and Lance pouted in response with his hands clasped together.

"This will make up for it?" Keith asked, avoiding Lance's gaze.

"Yes," Lance promised, trying to keep himself from feeling guilty.

Keith eyed him closely, as if he was gauging something.

"Fine," he eventually said. Lance cheered. "But you'd have to come as a prospie to spend the night."

"Say what now?"

"You have to pretend you're someone who wants to come to my school. A prospective student."

"What? Why?" Lance complained. "I don't wanna go to school!"

"You don't actually have to go, idiot. We'll just say you're a prospie."

"How come I can't just spend the night?"

"Because the visitor protocol is being changed. A lot of people are breaking the rules, so the rules are changing. Since it's near the end of the school year, they decided that no one can have overnight visitors for the rest of the year."

"That's some balls," Lance muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"All you have to do is sign a paper saying you want to come and why. It's easy. Unless you just don't want to come…" Keith trailed off.

"I'll do it!" Lance said, fist pumped into the air with enthusiasm.

"This should be good," Keith muttered. A nearby techie laughed at his disdain.

 **AN:**

 **Thanks for reading guys, have a good week and I'll catch you on the flip!**


	20. The Tunnel of Not-So-Love

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **It's your fav day of the week! Eb Finally Uploaded Day!**

 **Ch20- The Tunnel of Not-So-Love**

"Stop looking at me like that."

"I have no idea what you mean, Lover Boy—"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"I just think it's cute," Hunk said rolling onto his stomach. From his bed, he watched Keith attempt to clear enough space in the middle of their shared room for a cot.

"There's nothing cute about it," Keith muttered, spinning in a slow circle to find a new home for the books he'd gathered off the floor.

"You had your first fight, you ran to his studio to apologize, he asked to spend the night—"

"He's a _prospie_ ," Keith interrupted as Hunk began ticking the list off with his fingers. "That's what they do."

"You agreed to let a sworn enemy stay the night."

"Dancers aren't my sworn enemies. They're just usually really annoying and stuck up," Keith corrected, stepping up onto his desk chair and heaving his books onto the top of the wardrobe.

"You once told me that if a dancer was on fire in front of you and you had a glass of water, you'd dump it on the ground and throw the empty glass at the dancer."

"I was having a bad day when I said that." The books Keith was attempting to stack toppled over and fell down the other side of the wardrobe.

"Jeezus Chri— you could help, you know!" Keith said, glaring over at Hunk who was still laying comfortably on his bed. Lion chose that precise moment to jump up onto Hunk's back, circle three times, and lay down.

"Can't, dude. I'm the resting place for precious cargo."

"Gravity is dumb," Keith muttered, glaring disapprovingly down at the books that had fallen.

"You wouldn't be saying that if we didn't have it," Hunk reached behind him awkwardly to pet Lion. "But, seriously, what's got your skinny jeans in a knot, huh? You're not that nervous to have Lance over tonight, are you?"

"I'm not nervous," Keith snapped. He stepped off the chair and kicking the fallen books under the wardrobe. "I just… I haven't heard from her in a while."

"Ah, soulmate trouble," Hunk said.

"It's annoying to hear her dumb music blasting in my head at odd hours, but… I don't know, I have a weird feeling. I just haven't heard anything. It's like having walkie-talkies, and you're trying to reach the other person, but their end is just static. You know?" Judging from Hunk's squint, he didn't.

"Dude, it's almost exam time. Maybe she just needs some quiet so she can study."

"We don't do our music thing anymore," Keith said gruffly, plopping down in the middle of the floor.

"You mean, when you turn your music up because hers is loud, and she turns hers up because yours is loud, and you turn yours up again and you both contribute to each other's hearing loss?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you did that because she was annoying, and you wanted to make her quit. Not because it was fun."

"You're right, but…" Keith shrugged, flopping onto his back on the ground. "It's okay though. When Lance plays his Spanish music at dance, I'll use the remote to turn it down, and he'll go over to the stereo and turn it back up. It's kind of the same thing. Ish."

"Have you talked to Lance about any of this?"

"What? Why would I do that?" Keith asked, wrinkling his nose at his best friend. Hunk raised his arms in surrender as best he could while lying down.

"I don't know, dude. I'm just saying that maybe he'd have more experience with this stuff. Or Harpe from next door—"

"I'm not talking to Harpe from next door."

"Dude, I'm just trying to think of people who we know have soulmates and might be able to help."

"Okay, two things. One, you have a soulmate. She's probably just deaf or hates music or something. We'll find her. Two, how do you know if Lance has a soulmate or not?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, we talked a bit about soulmate stuff at the benefit. I guess he could tell something was on my mind and he asked what was up and everything about… about _her_ spilled out."

"Usually you're pretty private with that kind of stuff," Keith said casually.

"Yeah, ever since Grandma Talia, I've kinda…. I've been thinking about things differently."

"What do you mean?" Keith asked, moving to sit beside his roommate on the bed. Hunk sat up slowly, letting Lion roll off his back and onto a pillow.

"If I've got a soulmate, I want to find her," he said firmly, eyes on his hands. "At least to see if she's okay. You know, life's too short and all that jazz."

Yike. Keith wasn't good at this stuff.

"I… hope we find her. She's got to be pretty amazing to deserve someone as good as you." Hunk practically dove into Keith's arms.

"I love you, bro," Hunk muttered into his shoulder. Keith grinned.

"Love you, too, man."

"You guys having cuddle time without me?" a loud voice demanded from outside the room. Keith looked up to see a tall blonde standing in the doorway.

"Does your girlfriend know you got out of your enclosure, Harpe?"

"Ha, ha, very funny," Harpe said, rolling his eyes. "With that attitude, maybe I won't drop off your precious little drop of sunshine, here."

"No idea what you're talking about," Keith said honestly. Harpe grinned and motioned for someone beside him but out of view from the doorway to come closer.

"Come here, angel," Harpe crooned. And suddenly Lance was standing in the doorway in his tight dance shorts with Harpe practically wrapped around him.

"Harpe, get off," Keith snapped, detangling himself from Hunk.

"Nah, I think I want to hang out with sugar hips, here a while." Harpe made exaggerated kissy faces at Lance, who turned his head to make his cheek available for kissing.

"Didn't Keith say you have a girlfriend?" Lance asked, clearly suppressing an amused grin.

"She'd be cool with a poly relationship," Harpe said, face way too close to Lance's for Keith's comfort.

"Okay," Keith said, crossing the room to Lance and pulling him away from Harpe by the elbow. "Thank you for bringing Lance, Harpe, please leave."

"Fine, fine. Ruin my fun, why don't you?" Harpe grumbled, reaching out to grab Lance's hand into a quick squeeze before winking and dashing down the hall.

"Sorry about him. He's a real character," Keith muttered.

"He seems harmless," Lance said with his trademark sunny grin.

"Still, let me know if he bothers you too much. Guy can't read social cues to save his life," Keith said, pointedly ignoring Hunk, who was mouthing "possessive" to Keith while Lance's back was turned.

"Also, why are you so late? I thought the bus was dropping you off at 5?"

"Well," Lance said with gusto. "The bus broke down, so I hitched a ride with a potato farmer halfway here. He couldn't take me all the way because he was needed to rush home, something about optimal fertilizing times, I have no idea. Then a couple of old ladies in a cab got me the rest of the way, they were super cool, one even had pink hair."

Keith blinked, more taken aback at the warm rush Lance's babbling words brought him than the babbling itself.

"Lance, the weirdest things happen to you," he finally said.

"You don't know the half of it, da Vinci."

"By the way, sorry we don't have your cot ready. Even if I do manage to clean this place up, I don't think there's going to be enough space for a cot. I have, like, ten easels in use right now."

"No worries, that just means we can have a real sleepover!" Lance crowed. "Sharing a bed, cuddled under one big blanket— wait, did you draw these?"

Keith, who had turned around to clear away scrap paper, broken brushes, and dirty glasses from the floor, turned to find Lance lifting up an old shirt that had been covering one of the many easels in the room.

"Oh, uh, yeah." The painting was a quick, rough doodle of a couple friends goofing off in art class. Just another failed attempt at "emotions" and "story-telling" and all that garbage for Keith's stupid final project.

"It's fantastic," Lance said, sounding a bit breathless as his fingertips brushed lightly against the canvas, his expression close to awe.

"Oh. Thank you. I, well, it's not what I was hoping it'd be," Keith babbled, dumping the used supplies in his overflowing trashcan and stacking the dirty glasses on a sliver of unused space on his desk.

"What? It's incredible, what do you mean it's not what you hoped?"

"Er, all these paintings are just… attempts. I've been trying to do that thing with painting emotions and telling a story. It's just… hard," Keith said with a shrug, fussing with his bangs. He glared at Hunk, who laughed silently behind his palms at Keith.

"Well, these are good efforts, then. Keep trying, you'll get the hang of it!" Lance said, holding two thumbs up. Keith shook his head and grinned behind his bangs.

Lance dropped his backpack on the floor by the foot of Keith's bed and dropped onto the mattress.

"Wow, you can really see where Hunk's side ends and yours begins," Lance remarked.

Hunk's side was organized chaos. Uneven stacks of books lined the shelves with happy little plants in between and plenty of fairy lights and quilts to make the area cozy. Keith's side was completely paint splattered and charcoal stained with darker accents and a more chaotic aura.

"Hunk is all 'welcome to my happy abode' and you're like 'unwelcome to the fortress of doom,'" Lance said with a laugh.

"Well, he's not wrong," Hunk said. Keith shrugged.

"Got more important things to do than clean."

"Every college guy ever, am I right?" Lance said in a staged whisper to Hunk, who nodded. "Keith, don't look at me like that. I was kidding! Get away from me! What is that, a switchblade?"

"What, this old thing?" Keith asked, toying with the black pocket-knife he'd pulled out of his pocket. He switched it open.

"Mercy, mercy!" Lance cried out dramatically, falling to his knees.

"Hm… I'll think about it," Keith said, slipping the knife back in his pocket. "Anyways, I was planning to give you the tour once you got here, but it's kind of late…"

"Idea!" Lance piped up, crawling back onto Keith's bed and plopping down on his back. He looked very at comfortable. It was like he belonged there, like it was natural. "You should show me your favourite place on campus!"

"Don't look too proud if yourself, my favorite place is outside."

"What, are you scared of the dark or something?" Lance teased, absentmindedly patting Keith's comforter on either side of his legs.

"No, just malaria," Keith retorted, grabbing his keys and heading towards the door. "Well? You coming?"

"Wait really?" Lance grinned brightly, leaping off the bed and charging after Keith. "Sweet, I knew even you couldn't deny these puppy eyes."

"More like I just didn't want to hear you complain all night that I didn't take you to my favorite spot. Why does my favourite place matter to you anyway?" Keith asked, leading Lance down the hall and physically redirecting him away from Casey, the RA he was ogling at.

"What? Oh. A favourite place tells you a lot about a person," Lance said distractedly. He was eyeing the framed photos that lined the wall as they went down the creaky stairs. "Hey, are you in any of these?"

"Ha, no. Those are all either pictures of our sports teams or they're old photos from, like, a hundred years ago."

"You're not athletic, huh? Well, we can't all be like Adonis," Lance struck a few poses, showing off lean muscle.

"Adonis died from a boar attack." Keith said flatly, grinning when Lance visibly deflated. "Also, I'm plenty athletic. I do martial arts type things."

"Woah, so if I needed you to kick someone's butt for me, you would?" Lance asked, nearly tripping over a pile of shoes at the end of the staircase. Keith grabbed his arm to keep him upright.

"No. I'm not renting myself to solve your problems and fight your battles," Keith muttered, holding the door open for Lance. "Why? Do you have someone in mind who needs a butt-kicking?"

"No way. I was just messing with you." Lance smiled easily as Keith guided him around the back of the house, where that smile grew. Around the back, there was a small gathering of students grilling on the deck to the sound of a blaring stereo under sun umbrellas with bottles in their hands and laughter on their lips.

"Dude, a college party!" the dancer crowed, heading to join in. Keith grabbed the back of Lance's shirt and dragged him away from the throngs of people that had gathered.

"I'm responsible for you until tomorrow. No drunken shenanigans on my watch," Keith said as he pulled Lance to the forest behind the house. It was a thick tree line made mostly of sturdy fir trees with deep green needles, some of which were browning and about to fall, like the ones covering the forest floor.

"Woah, woah, hey. You're taking me, alone, through a forest in the middle of the night?" Lance asked, clawing Keith's hands off his collar. Keith let go immediately.

"I'm not going to do anything," Keith promised, slightly stung that Lance had to worry about that sort of thing at all, let alone worry about it coming from Keith. "I mean, I know you don't know me all that well, but I thought we—"

"What in actual tarnation are you talking about?" Lance asked, cocking his head. His normally trimmed bangs were a bit long and brushed sideways, falling into his eyes.

"You're scared that I'm going to… you know, do something. To you."

"Do something to— oh!" Lance's eyes lit up with recognition before darkening. "Wait, you thought I thought you were going to do things to me?"

"Uh… yes?" That was clearly the wrong answer.

"Seriously starting to regret you finding out about Lotor, my dude," Lance huffed, crossing his arms moodily. "That stuff happened a long time ago and I've, like, made amends, or whatever. I'm over it. I mean not _over_ it, over it, but like… over it."

"What?"

"You don't have to worry about me having a panic attack any time a guy I don't know touches me, and you don't need to worry that I think everyone around me is out to get me. Especially not you."

"Oh," Keith said awkwardly, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. He wasn't sure what just happened, but he was pretty sure he had offended Lance again. "Sorry."

"What— why are you apologizing again?" Lance demanded agitatedly, throwing his arms up.

"I made you uncomfortable?" he guessed

"Oh my— I'm not uncomfortable! I'm not a fragile flower, I'm not a baby who needs coddling, and I'm not defenseless. Now take me to your secret place!" Lance held his hand out, waiting for Keith to guide him. Keith blinked at the dancer's quick recovery and rolled his eyes at the weirdo's strange antics.

"It's this way. And I'm not holding your hand," Keith said, putting his arms to protect himself from the needles of the trees as he pushed past them. Dead needles and twigs crackled pleasantly under foot and the sweet, earthy smell of tree sap grew stronger as they moved through the forest.

"You said you wanted to make sure I was comfortable and stuff!" Lance whined, pouting as he followed Keith.

"I thought you said you weren't uncomfortable."

"I take it back, I'm scared of the dark." Keith tossed him a flashlight and turned on the other for himself. "That's not what I meant."

"I thought you said you don't want coddling."

"I lied, I want coddling," Lance said, flicking his flashlight on. The rays glowed up around Lance's face, making him look kind of ethereal.

"Uh, I can hold your hand, I guess."

Lance eyed Keith closely for a second and smiled easily, not showing his teeth as he said, "I was just messing with you again. Take a joke, dude!" Lance turned away from Keith and began scanning the forest ground with his flashlight.

"I can hold your hand," Keith repeated a bit louder, eyes on Lance's back.

"Heard you the first time, big guy," Lance said, still distractedly watching the forest's floor.

"Lance," Keith said, heart slamming in his chest.

"Yeah?" Lance said, finally looking up with tight eyes. Keith held out a hand. Lance grinned.

"My hero."

Keith would've rolled his eyes at that and taken his hand back if the words hadn't been spoken so softly and honestly.

They trekked through the woods as the moon rose higher and shined brighter down on them. They were a good ways away from any student housing, so there was no music, or laughter, or shouting, or any other sign of people. The crickets seemed to be carrying on a conversation, the owls hooted every now and then, and it was very peaceful.

The entire way, Lance cracked bad dad jokes and made terrible puns that he clearly thought were hilarious. It wasn't until he started sharing his favourite pick-up lines that Keith started having a problem. His face got hotter and hotter as Lance babbled compliments and silly one-liners nonstop. Keith was very grateful that it was too dark for Lance to see his face.

Suddenly Lance swung Keith around by the hand and dragged him close.

"Hello, I'm a thief," Lance said with a saucy grin. "I'm here to steal your heart."

"Not with that breath you won't," Keith blurted out, stepping out of Lance's arm reach. To his pleasant surprise, Lance burst into laughter.

"No wonder you're still single!" Lance gasped between chuckles.

"I could leave you here," Keith said, even though they were no more than ten steps away from their destination.

"Keith, my light, my love, my life! You wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't I?" Keith dared. Lance gasped before snorting with laughter again. "Come on, Player, it's right here."

Lance let out an appreciative hum when he saw what Keith was pointing to. It was a very old bridge that stood tall in crumbling brick over a shallow stream. A long time ago, it was probably an area that was used as part of campus, but now it was just an old, forgotten bridge tucked deep within a thick forest.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool, huh? I've definitely painted it plenty of times, but it's inside that's the best," Keith said, dragging Lance closer to the bridge. He came close to the bank of the wide stream and kicked out of his shoes.

"Are we really about to walk through this stream barefoot at, like, 9 at night? Are we trespassing? Who owns this bridge?"

"The troll owns the bridge, happy police," Keith teased. "And you could walk in your shoes, but I'd advise against that."

"Hey, I'm not the happy police, I'm fun!" Lance protested as he struggled out of his shoes. "I just don't want to get bit by, like, a crayfish or something."

"You mean crawfish?" Keith corrected as he dropped his shoes on the ground. Lance copied him and stood up, following Keith into the water.

"Keith, I can't be friends with you if you call them crawfish." Lance said seriously as he stepped into the stream. "Yikes, that's cold!" he shouted, easing his other foot in the water.

"You're fine, come on," Keith said, carefully making his way under the bridge.

Once under it, the structure looked more like a tunnel, than the underside of a bridge. It looked neat, but wasn't the most inviting place; the walls dripped, the corners had spiderwebs, and there were always clumps of leaves that looked like dead animals. But it was Keith's tunnel, and Keith loved it.

"Wow look at this graffiti!" Lance exclaimed as he came into the tunnel. "It looks like art. Ooh, a deep quote— oh my God, this reverberation is the bomb! This is amazing, imagine what it would be like to sing down here!"

"Go for it," Keith said, heading farther down the tunnel. "The echo sounds better at this end because the other side is sort of crumbling, so you stay here. I'll be outside at the other end checking out how bad that side looks. We had a heavy rainstorm recently, and I want to make sure there's nothing that needs fixing."

"You fix this bridge? Dude, that's so cool!"

"Oh, no, it's more like I see what needs fixing and I tell Hunk to fix it," Keith corrected. "Have fun singing, I'll be back in a second."

Keith began walking down the tunnel, enjoying how the light from his flashlight bounced of the water and made reflections on the ceiling. He found himself a bit hypnotized by the quiet lullaby that Lance began to sing. It didn't sound like English, but that was probably another effect of the tunnel. It may echo in a cool way, but it really messed with how words sounded.

The tunnel was very long, the bridge being wide enough to fit several cars side by side, so by the time Keith got to the end of the tunnel, Lance had finished his song. Keith used the silence to focus on examining the damage done to the bridge. It wasn't that bad. It looked like some brick had just come loose or got knocked off. Most of the mortar was intact with few cracks or chips, and the bridge still looked solid, despite the ivy and wildflowers that grew up and across the structure.

Keith was running the numbers of what new bricks and mortar would cost to repair the bridge when he heard Lance singing again, but much closer this time, like he was right behind Keith.

"You trying to distract me?" Keith asked, patting a few bricks that looked like they might come loose soon. Lance didn't respond, but Keith didn't even mind. The dancer's voice was nice.

Satisfied with his estimates for the repaid of the bridge, Keith walked back into the tunnel, humming along with Lance's song. It was catchy and cheerful. Keith just wished he could understand the words, but the tunnel was doing a fine job of warping the lyrics into nonsense.

"Lance, where are you?" Keith asked, scanning the area with his flashlight. He had heard Lance really well at the broken end of the bridge, so he expected the dancer to be pretty close by, but he couldn't see Lance anywhere.

Lance's voice continued to echo melodically through the tunnel. He seemed to be right in front of Keith's face, but somehow out of the flashlight's range. Keith was almost all the way at the end of the tunnel when a voice suddenly spoke up.

"Good song, huh?" Keith let out a high-pitched yelp in response, flashlight jerking to beam directly at Lance's face.

"Jeezus, Lance!" Keith complained, hand on his heaving chest. "Warn a guy, will you?"

"Sorry," Lance said with a laugh, not sounding sorry at all. "I thought you heard me over here, since you were humming my song."

"Wait, were you here the whole time?"

"Yuppers."

"So, you weren't at the other end of the bridge singing to distract me?"

"No, you said this end had the best sound." Lance was starting to look suspicious and Keith was starting to get nervous. "Maybe sound travels better than you think down here."

"No. No way. When Hunk comes down to fix the crumbling end, I tend to stay at the opening to wait because the tools are freaking loud and I can't ever hear his tools if we're at opposite ends."

"So…" Lance stood a bit stiffer. "I have a loud voice."

"No, Lance. I heard it like you were right beside me," Keith shook his head. "No, it was louder than that, now that I think about it. It was like—" Keith cut off. "It was like you were inside my head."

You could've heard a pin drop on that forest floor. The wind whistled through and the nightlife continued to make their conversation, but you could've heard a pin. Lance looked absolutely petrified. He was completely stiff, and his eyes were the size of saucers.

"Uh, Lance?" Keith said. Lance didn't even flinch. "Lance, are you okay?"

"I have to go," Lance said, spinning around and racing out of the tunnel. Keith flinched as a spray of chilly water splashed his face in Lance's rush to leave, but he recovered quickly.

"Lance, what the heck?" Keith called as he ran after the dancer, which proved to be much more difficult than it seemed. "Lance, come back, I— this is scary, I know, but maybe running isn't the best solution?"

"You know nothing, Keith Kogane," Lance hissed with the most venomous voice Keith had ever heard from him.

"Lance, seriously. This doesn't just affect you—" Lance whirled around and cut him off.

"The last thing I need right now is _this_ again," Lance said sharply, gesturing to Keith. "Thanks, but no thanks!" Then he disappeared through the thick tree line and darted through the party carrying on behind Keith's dorm.

Keith was well behind at this point. He wasn't sure he understood what "this" meant. But he was almost certain it had to do with relationships. And he was almost certain it had to do with the bad kind of relationships. And that made him absolutely certain that meant Lotor kind of relationships. But Keith wasn't Lotor. And Lance would never know that if he didn't give Keith a cha—

Who was he kidding. Like Keith even deserved a chance. Keith knew who he was. Who he came from. The short answer was not great people. The long answer involved a family full of multiple arrests, jail time, roughing ups, booze, and a whole host of other fun things. There was no way Lance wanted the product of that kind of lifestyle. No way.

Still, being rejected by a soulmate was pretty rare. And pretty painful.

 **AN:**

 **Yike. Got a little dark there.**

 **Hope you guys are having a good week, see you next time!**


	21. Finding Luis

**AN:**

 **TW: descriptions of on screen panic attack**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Ch21- Finding Luis**

"What's wrong?"

Lance looked up from the menus he had been stacking in the host podium.

"Hi, Carol," he said with a warm smile, straightening the basket of napkin-wrapped silverware on the shelf below the menus. "Nothing's wrong. Just ready to be out of here, you know?"

"Come on, baby doll," Carol said with a knowing smile. "You can tell me. I've seen it all."

Lance's eyes went to the engagement ring on Carol's finger. It was a simple band, studded with white sapphires: the broke man's diamond. That ring had been put there by Carol's soulmate. The man she had gone great lengths and spent a lot of money to find.

"Thinking about soulmates," Lance said honestly, twirling a set of silverware in his hands as Carol leaned over the podium to catch his eye.

"Oh, honey, you'll find yours. There's some beautiful girl out there waiting for her Lance Charming," Carol said in a very motherly voice.

"Thanks, Carol," Lance said with a very forced smile, hands tight around the silverware.

He couldn't complain. After all, he was one of the lucky ones. He had found his soulmate. He had found his soulmate, and that was supposed to be the biggest hurdle. So maybe it just took time. Maybe everything could fall into place, like it did for Carol.

"What did you think when you first met your soulmate?" he asked, testing the waters.

"Hm," Carol sat down on one of the black waiting area couches near the podium. "I remember being real grateful. Not everyone finds their soulmate, you know. It would've been rude to everyone who isn't matched to not accept my Chris."

"What if you didn't want to date him?" Lance asked casually, eyes on his hands.

"Soulmates are centuries in the making, sweets. Determined by the cosmos or the fates or whatever you believe," Carol explained, resting her arms along the back of the couch. "And, besides, I couldn't say "no" to Chris, it would've broken his heart."

"Broken his heart?" Lance said weakly, thinking back to Keith's pained voice begging him to stop running.

"Yeah, I couldn't be that… I guess selfish is the word? Maybe cruel?" Carol cocked her head in thought. "And anyways, I could always have said "no" later on. You aren't tied to your soulmate, as much as the world wants you to think."

"Ah… so you felt you had to, uh, give him a chance," Lance said awkwardly, guilt settling even heavier in his stomach.

"But some people know right off the bat that their soulmate isn't right for them, and that's okay too," Carol said with a shrug. Lance felt her scrutinizing eyes on him as he put down the rolled up silverware. "It just so happened to work out that Chris and I were… compatible, I guess. Why are you asking? Do you think you know your soulmate?"

"Um," Lance stalled, drumming his fingers on the podium. "I wouldn't say that I…" Just then, he caught a flash of a familiar, bright shade of green through one of the front windows. He leaned forward and squinted to see who was coming toward the front door.

 _Pidge_. And absolute _godsend_.

"Oh look, Pidge is here to pick me up," Lance said, voice a bit hysterical to his own ears. "I have to go, see you tomorrow!" He scuttled around the podium and slipped out the huge double doors before Pidge could come inside.

"Hey, Lance, wha—"

"Hey Pidge, time to go!" Lance said, linking an arm through Pidge's as he powerwalked away from the restaurant.

"Woah, hey, dude. You aren't gonna let me in to say hi to everyone?" Pidge asked as he was ushered away from the restaurant.

"Nope, no can do, my pint-sized co-pilot," Lance quipped, dragging Pidge toward the bus station.

"There's time—"

"No there's not—"

"Why are you so quick to get out of there?"

"Awkward conversation."

"Was someone being nosy? Need me to teach them a lesson?" Pidge asked, pressing his palm to his other hand's fist. He cursed and shook out the hand he had tried to crack.

Lance snorted at his friend's pain as they came up to the bus stop, dropping down on the cracked plastic bench in the bluish-green glow of an old streetlamp. He leaned against the back of the seat and tilted his head back, letting himself go boneless for a second.

"Tough day at work?" Pidge asked, settling next to Lance. His feet were planted on the seat so he could sit back on his heals.

"You look like a goblin when you sit like that."

"So, it was a bad day at work. What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"I saw you with Carol. Was she the one you had the awkward conversation with?"

"Yeah."

"She likes to gossip."

"She wasn't gossiping, Pidge. Nothing bad happened at work," Lance said tiredly.

"So, it was last night, then?" Pidge asked as they saw the bus turned around the corner at the end of the street. "If nothing happened at work, it must've been last night."

"Nothing happened last night." The long, green and blue city bus grinded to a halt in front of them. Its interior lighting was a fluorescent white, shining out onto the dark street much brighter than the streetlamps.

"You forget I can tell when you're lying." Pidge sang as they boarded the bus and chose a spot. Pidge's feet hovering a good foot above the floor when he leaned back into their shared seat.

"That thing with Keith was last night, wasn't it?" Pidge tried again. "How'd that sleepover go? Did you get converted to college grad yet, drop out?"

"No, I did not get converted," Lance said with a scoff.

"Then what happened?" Pidge asked, pointing in Lance's face.

"Pidge, please," Lance muttered, smacking the pointing hand downwards.

"Fine, don't tell me what happened," Pidge said, crossing his arms and pouting. "I'm coming over tonight."

"How did I know you were going to say that?" Lance sighed, leaning his head against the window of the bus. "I just want to be alone, Pidge."

"I'm coming over and we're making food because I'm starving, and your mom's recipes are so good, they make me second guess your decision to move out." Lance snorted and settled deeper into his seat.

"Sure thing, sprout," Lance said.

When the bus stopped at their street and they made it safely to the sidewalk, Pidge began racing down the poorly lit concrete on his black and green Heely's. Lance shook his head as he jogged to catch up with his wayward friend. He only caught up because Pidge, ever the daredevil, started skating backwards.

"You're getting better at that," Lance complimented.

Pidge grinned, circling him quickly before slowing so Lance could walk next to him. As they traveled side-by-side, Lance loosened the knot in his glossy black tie and lifted it over his head, mussing his hair in the process. He swung the loose tie over Pidge, so it came to rest around his neck.

"Ties are so weird. I love them," Pidge whispered, tightening his borrowed tie.

"I know you do," Lance said, ruffling Pidge's hair as his skinny brick townhouse came into view. He quickly made his way up the steps to the bright blue front door, making quick work of the key. Once the door was open he tripped over the mat in front of it in his haste to get inside.

He vaguely heard the door being shut behind him and another pair of footsteps make their way towards him. He leaned back against the wall beside the door, taking a deep breath.

"Woah, hey. You okay?" Pidge asked, waving his hand in front of Lance's face.

"I'm fine," Lance said dazedly, waving his concerns away with a trembling hand. He heaved for breath, remembering an assembly in elementary school where he tried to breathe through a straw that mimicked what it was like to breathe with smoker's lungs.

"Earth to Cadet McClain," Pidge's voice startled him back into focus. Apparently, he had closed his eyes because he found them opening to see Pidge right in front of his face.

"Pidge," he whispered, head lolling forward, too heavy for him to hold up. He was so tired all of the sudden and his gaze fixated oddly on the corner by the stairs.

"Come on, let's get you up," Pidge said, pulling Lance onto his feet and half-dragging him into the kitchen. "Come on, big guy, what are we making?"

Lance smiled to himself. He loved cooking. He wasn't that great at it, but he knew some staple family recipes that were familiar enough. The regular movements of chopping and mixing were especially soothing.

"Guac," he decided in a stronger voice. "I have the good tortilla chips."

He beelined straight for the vegetable bowl on the kitchen island, chest already loosening at the familiar feel of the white ceramic with painted on fruit. He searched the bowl for avocados and a tomato while Pidge hunted down measuring spoons and a bowl for the dip behind him.

Next was a look through the herb garden in the big window above the sink for cilantro, and the pantry for an onion. This was all done in silence. It wasn't until Lance was mid-chop on the onion when words finally started tumbling out of his mouth.

"Keith is my soulmate. Found out last night and left early. Grabbed my stuff and bolted," he said tightly. Pidge didn't respond immediately, but his eyes were definitely on Lance's back.

"Told you your soulmate was a guy," he finally said.

"Pidge!"

"Sorry. So, Keith as in mullet Keith? Artist Keith? Benefit for the friend whose Gam-Gam is dying Keith?" Pidge asked from where he sat on a stool at the island, eating chips and looking mildly surprised.

"Yup."

"Huh. So how do we feel about it?" Pidge asked, cursing when half of his chip broke off and fell onto the floor.

"I bolted, Pidge," Lance said, staring down at his onion. "How do you think I feel?"

"Man, what deity did you piss off, huh?" Pidge asked, reaching across the island to feed Lance a chip.

"No idea," Lance said around the chip in his mouth, "but if he could kindly end my suffering, that'd be fantastic."

"I'm a slut for these chips," Pidge whispered as he bit into another one. "Is it bad because of the _you-know-who_ relationship or because he's a dude?"

"Jeezus, I don't know. Both?"

"Huh. But is it all bad?"

"How can you ask that— of _course_ it's all bad," Lance said, waving the kitchen knife for emphasis.

"It _could_ be good," Pidge clarified, leaning away from Lance, who threw up his hands, including the one that held the knife. "With time and effort and some serious counseling— just a suggestion— this could be good."

"You're kidding right?"

"Come on, I know you're all Master of Doom and whatever, but seriously. This could be good. If you let it." Pidge looked at Lance with wise eyes.

"But what—" a sharp knock at the front door interrupted Lance.

"Got it!" Pidge said, leaping off his stool and wheeling to the door.

Lance chuckled and turned back to chopping onions, blinking away the tears they caused. His mamá taught him a trick to keep his eyes from watering when he cut onions, but he couldn't remember it. He wanted to call her. He wanted to talk to his mamá real bad. About onions and boys. And why they always made him cry.

"Um, Lance?" Pidge's voice came through from the hall that lead from the front door, past the stairs, and to the kitchen.

"Hm?"

"Lance, buddy, you'll never guess who's here," Pidge said with a tight voice.

"If you let Keith in, I'm going to off myself with this onion," Lance said, turning around. "Oh."

Lance's older brother, Luis, was standing behind Pidge, shoulders hunched and hands deep in his pockets. Luis didn't know where Lance lived. Luis didn't even know Lance's phone number. Maybe Lance was hallucinating. That happened to stressed people all the time. It could totally happen to Bad Luck Lancey-Lance.

The fact that Lance's stoic older brother, who had about as much emotion as a ribbon-less ballet shoe, was crying like his dog had just died only supported the hallucination theory. Luis awkwardly tried to wipe his tears while making it look like he was resituating his glasses. Lance sighed inwardly.

"Pidge, can you come back tomorrow?" Lance asked.

"I'll be back late afternoon; I got your schedule for this week. Call me," he said, Heely-ing backwards towards the front door while miming a phone call.

Lance couldn't help but notice Luis' aborted attempt to reach out to Pidge, or Pidge's responding thumbs up and nervous grin. Once Pidge was gone, Luis looked terrified.

"So," Lance said awkwardly. He had never been faced with a crying brother at almost midnight. "What's going on?"

Luis opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but only a shuddering gasp came out. He tried again and his shuddery gasp was accompanied by a genuine whimper. Lance's eyes widened and he did his best to school his expression. He was not prepared for this.

"Okay, let's, uh, let's just make some guac and watch Disney movies until you tell me what's going on," he suggested.

Luis was agreeable, so Lance silently finished making the guac while his brother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, even though Lance told him he could sit at the island. Luis was absolutely hypnotized as he watched Lance chopping and mixing and Lance wondered if that was how his mamá felt.

After fighting the sour cream to mix into the guac, Lance handed it over to Luis with the chips and guided him back down the hallway to the living room. Meanwhile Lance searched for blankets in a wide closet under the stairs. He came back with three thick, fluffy blankets in various pastel shades, and a couple thick pillows with patterned covers.

Lance plopped down heavily onto his sunny sofa and put a pillow behind his back, one behind Luis and dropped the other on Luis' lap. His brother looked a little confused for a second, but hugged the fluffy pillow to his chest like it was instinct. Lance frowned at how weird his big brother was acting but didn't say anything. He just spread the blankets across himself and Luis and snagged the remote from the coffee table so he could sign into Netflix.

"What are you feeling?" Lance asked. He couldn't think of what Luis' favourite was.

"I like Finding Nemo," Luis said softly, stroking over the cartoon doodles of lemons on the pillow he was holding.

Lance silently clicked on the suggested movie. He really wanted to know what was going on. Normal Luis was bold and assertive. He wasn't shy and sulky like this. He was acting like a little kid who got yelled at. Lance tried not to think about it, forcing himself to focus on the movie and getting enough guac before Luis ate it all.

"She broke up with me," Luis said only fifteen minutes in. His voice was rough, like he was trying to hold back tears. Or vomit. Lance bit into a chip awkwardly. "I mean, we weren't soulmates or anything. I think that's I was so… adamant that you guys were wrong about her. I mean she's difficult, but she's not bad. She can be mean, though."

"Was she ever mean to you?" Lance asked carefully, immediately searching his brother's face for answers.

"She wasn't abusive." Lance wasn't surprised that Luis saw through his thinly veiled question. "Maybe manipulative, but never outright hurtful. I think she just never knew how else to get what she wanted."

"Why did you guys break up?"

"She—" Luis choked, sounding close to sobbing as his hand went up so fast to cover his mouth that he slapped his own skin.

"Woah, hey," Lance protested, heart in his throat. He pulled Luis' hand away from his mouth and found his hand clenched in Luis' grip.

"She found out that… God, I don't know why I'm so nervous. I know you'll get it, I just… Mom and Dad don't… and I see how our family looks at you… it's different. It's all so different and I haven't been there, and I have no idea how you've been so strong."

"Literally what the hell are you talking about?"

Luis looked up at Lance with shining eyes. They shone partly because his tears caught the light from the TV, but also because those eyes looked proud. Lance was definitely missing something here.

"I'm gay, Lance."

Oh.

 _Oh._

"You're probably really mad I never told you because you came out to me, and I did nothing when our family figured it out. They're treating you so coldly, and that's part of the reason I haven't been around much. They won't want me either after— not that they don't want you— Christ, that sounded so bad, I just mean—"

"Luis, breathe," Lance interrupted.

"Sorry," Luis said, eyes on his pillow.

"I'm not, you know, mad about you not coming out," Lance said honestly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he turned his gaze back to the movie. "You weren't ready. That's fine."

"You're not mad?"

"No," Lance said tiredly. "And I get that you only came to me because I would understand. I'm not mad you need someone to lean on, just a little tired of—"

"That's so not why I came," Luis interrupted.

"What? You came because I'm gay, half-out, and would understand, right?"

"No, I… Lance, you're the only one in this family I would go to battle for. Or, like, die for."

Lance was very startled and unsure of what to do with this information. He was also unsure of how any of this conversation was related to itself.

"Kid, you're my little brother. You're my whole heart. I'm just… bad at showing it."

News to Lance, but okay. Luis had never told Lance he loved him— especially when he needed it— but okay. Lance hadn't been hugged by anyone in his family, including Luis, since elementary school, but okay. Lance was never given a word of support or encouragement or anything like that since the sixth grade, but okay. Lance had never been saved from a bully, or nightmare, or a _guy_ since the eighth grade, but okay.

"How am I supposed to believe—" Lance was interrupted by a panicking Luis.

"If it means anything, I've gone to every single performance you've ever done— I swear, even the ones out of state," Luis said with a pleading face. "I've been to every fundraiser and benefit you've performed at, too. And I always went to your award shows and plays and stuff when you were in school. I was always there."

"The Nutcracker was your first performance," Luis blurted out like it was proof or something. Lance's blood fizzled. Luis using Lance's dancing to prove he was a good brother

"You're known for complicated choreography, your big personality and your love for gender-bent performances," Luis said, fumbling for something in his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"This is you accepting the medal and the trophy at your first international win," Luis said, thumbing through pictures on his phone, "and this is you shaking hands with that Russian lady whose name I can't pronounce— oh, this was your fourth competition. And this—"

"You're the only on in the family who has ever seen me dance," Lance said flatly.

"Yeah," Luis said. He said it like it was supposed to mean something.

"Do you know how bad I needed to know that?" Lance demanded bitterly, voice cracking and anger swirling in his chest. "Do you know how often I wished someone would want to come see me perform?"

"What?" Luis asked, looking thrown off and startled by Lance's sharp tone. He must've been expecting to be thanked.

"Do you have any idea how much I was alone and… if I knew I had someone…" Lance squeezed his hands into fists.

"I… I didn't think I mattered that much to you. I didn't think… in a million years, I never thought you'd _want_ me there. I thought you'd tell me to leave. But I had to know someone in our family was there supporting you. Even if it was me," Luis said, eyes gleaming. He sounded so proud of himself.

"So, your fear of rejection was stronger than your so-called love for me?" Lance demanded, slowly rising from the couch. "Instead of coming to see if I wanted you there, you told yourself I didn't and that you were some kind of self-sacrificing saint for coming to my performances anyways?"

"I was trying, Lan—"

"No, you weren't!" Lance shouted, throat burning. He sprang up from the couch, towering over his brother. "If you were trying, you would've said something. If you were trying, you would've chosen me over work, and your girlfriend, and your image, and your fear— you would've chosen _me_. Why is it so hard to choose me?" Hot, angry tears welled up and his chest heaved as he stared down at his older brother.

"I— I'm not strong, I know that," Luis said weakly.

"You're damn right, you aren't," Lance agreed whole-heartedly, voice cracking. "People are supposed to _show up_ for people they love, they don't hide. They come to the person they love, even if they think that person will flip out on them."

"To be fair, my work keeps me incredibly busy, so I don't always have time to—"

"So, you make time!" Lance threw up his arms and he was yelling again. "Family makes time. I stopped reaching out to you once I realized you were never going to respond, even to say "no" because you didn't have time for me. I get that you're busy, and scared, but maybe that's what needs changing. You can't only show up when it's convenient for you and expect it to be okay."

"You're right," Luis said between sobs. "You're so right, but, I never—"

"Stop making excuses," Lance said, trying to wrangle his temper back in.

"I wanted to make things right," Luis said lowly. "I wanted to know you. To be there for you."

"Funny how you decide I matter to you on the day you lose the only person you had," Lance said softly, cruelly. "Maybe you should've tried to be there for me when I needed you. But you were too wrapped up in work and Gina and reputations. And now, I don't need you."

The room was silent, except for Dory's "Keep Swimming" song that played across the TV screen.

"Lance, please," Luis pleaded in a very soft voice that sounded borderline afraid.

"I need you to leave," Lance said firmly. Luis looked like he wanted to protest, but he didn't. Not that Lance expected him to.

"I'm sorry," Luis said as he made his way to the door.

"I'm sure you are," Lance said, closing the door as soon as his brother was over the threshold. He sighed as a heavy bass drum began thumping through his head to the rhythm of an electric guitar.

 **AN:**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	22. An Angel's Harpe

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Get ready for some even more AU-ish things and made up medical facts/conditions. Actual definitions to my made up medical things are in the bottom AN for clarification.**

 **Also we love dumb titles.**

 **Ch22— An Angel's Harpe**

"Hey, can I— woah," Harpe froze before crossing the threshold of Keith's room.

Keith looked up from where he stood in the middle of the room on a stack of textbooks. Harpe was eyeing Keith's red stained sweater closely with wide eyes.

"H-how you doing… buddy?" Harpe asked with a tight grin.

Keith sniffled.

Harpe blinked.

"Good talk, see you around!" Harpe said with a mock salute, backing away from the room as quickly as he could.

"Wait," Keith called softly, arm outstretched in a weak attempt to stop his neighbor from leaving.

Harpe seemed to hesitate but shuffled back and stood in the doorway, cautiously peeking his head into the room.

"Sorry," Keith said, stepping off the stack of books. "I'm pressing leaves for a project in my history class." He pulled out a book from the bottom of the stack he had stood on, not even flinching when the textbook tower toppled over loudly, and flipped aimlessly through the book, stopping every few pages to pull out flattened leaves.

"Huh," Harpe said, looking intrigued. "You know, when I was dumped for the first time, I just ate a lot of junk, complained to my roommate, and committed a couple misdemeanors, but flower pressing is cool, too."

"I'm not pressing flowers, I'm pressing _leaves_ ," Keith stressed. "For history class. We get points for artistic elements and all I am is artistic elements and I need all the points."

"Right."

"And I didn't get dumped. I got rejected. I didn't even get the chance to be dumped."

"Ah. Well. Okay," Harpe stammered. "So, what's with the, uh, blood—"

"It's not blood," Keith interrupted. "It's paint thickened with starch."

"Ah. Of course," Harpe said evenly, backing slowly from the doorway.

"I'm serious, cheap water based paints thickened with a little powder, usually talcum powder or starch, stay truer to their original colour when they dry and they aren't as liquid, obviously, which makes them easier to control when—"

"You babble when you're stressed—"

"I'm not stressed," Keith said flatly.

"Oh, that's goo—"

"I'm depressed," he admitted. He always said too much when he was upset.

"Well, that's… understandable," Harpe said, scanning the room. "Uh, hey! Your paintings are… nice. They seem very dark. And, um, sad."

"You can tell what I'm feeling from my paintings?" Keith asked, hands disappearing under the long sleeves of his top as Harpe stepped further into the room.

Harpe nodded, "Yeah, sadness, right? Because of all the… I don't even know. It just looks sad. And shadowy. Are those trees?" Harpe asked, pointing to wispy, grey shapes on the canvas. "They look like they're, I don't know, claws. Kind of tearing at this little dude in the center. But he kind of looks more like a fire. Is it actually a person or am I misinterpreting?"

"I… yeah," Keith looked away from the painting. "I was planning on getting rid of it."

"What? It's so good! I love the colours, the greys and that greenish-blue look good together, but…" Harpe leaned in to squint at a spot on the painting. "But what's that little speck in the corner? The, like, sky blue. It doesn't really fit in with the other colours."

All Keith could think of was Lance's wispy tank top, his little dance shorts, his threadbare dance bag, the girly clip he held his hair up with when he danced. The colour of happiness. Keith shrugged and set his pressed leaves on top of his desk, which he had to admit was much messier than usual. Balled up sketches, discarded homework, and an underlying layer of crumbs made the foundation of the disaster. Empty energy drink cans littered both the desk and the floor, and broken charcoals, and splintering brushes sprinkled over everything.

"Your room looks… cozy," Harpe said. "So, what have you been up to besides… leaf pressing?"

"Studying. Math exam is coming up and, you know, _math_ ," Keith said with a weak grimace. Harpe, ever the good sport, laughed anyways.

"I hear you. What about that art class with the project you've been having a hard time with? Is that what your, uh, sad tree painting is for?"

"Oh, you mean the project that I suck so badly at that I had to shadow a dancer for inspiration, except that dancer turned out to be my soulmate, except that soulmate rejected me? Yeah, it's going great, especially since my source is gone," Keith complained with grating sarcasm and a pout.

"Source?"

"The thing I get information from to base my paintings off of," Keith said, righting his overturned trashcan and dropping to his knees to pile his trash into it.

"So, your inspiration."

"No," Keith said firmly, slamming an empty coffee cup into the trashcan with more force than necessary. "I just paint the stuff he does- _did_ \- during practice."

"He's your muse, sweets."

"He's _not_ my muse."

"Are you sure about that? I mean, if this is all inspired by him, then it looks like he's really… inspirational. To you. I mean, I've seen a lot of your stuff, and you have to admit that it looks like, since meeting—"

"I can't, okay?" Keith bit out, shoving an armful of balled up papers into the trash. "Because then that means I didn't really do this by myself, doesn't it?"

Harpe stared at Keith with an unimpressed look.

"So, let's unpack that," he said, hands clasped together. He finally stepped all the way into the room and came to stand in front of Keith and his trashcan. "Lance was, like, your inspiration, and now that you think you lost him—"

"I know I lost him."

"Now that you think you lost him," Harpe repeated louder, "You think your progress is gone, too. And you think you're going to go back to sucking at this. And you think you're alone. Which is all BS. Did I get it right?"

Keith shook his head and laughed softly as he stood and backed into his bed. He dropped down onto the dark duvet and flopped onto his back, legs dangling over the edge and arms outspread like wings.

"Keith, what's been going on with you?" Harpe asked, leaning his hip against the bed post.

Keith didn't respond. He shook his head again, eyes shutting and face screwing up stubbornly.

"Come on," Harpe tried again, voice almost pleading. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

"It was more than that," Keith said under his breath, sounding reluctant to answer.

"What are you talking about?"

"It—" Keith broke off, throwing an arm over his burning eyes, heat and pressure building in his chest.

"Keith you can tell—"

"It was more than a rejection!" Keith finally spat through a tight jaw.

"What do you… wait," Harpe's eyes widened. He lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress like he was afraid sitting on the bed or being close to Keith would set him off. "It was more than a soulmate rejection? Is that what you're saying? That it was a bond severing?"

"I mean…" Keith huffed, eyes shutting tightly. "It was a weak bond. Really weak. We'd only been talking for a few weeks."

"Some bonds only need days," Harpe said, voice sharp like a scolding.

Keith nodded, palms going to scrub at his eyes as his breath hitched. His chest had been aching since Lance left him in the woods, and it was getting worse. Sometimes it was hard to breathe through. Other times, Keith was convinced his heart was being compressed.

"God," Harpe rasped, hand grasping at Keith's knee with an iron grip. " _God_!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Keith demanded, put off by Harpe's panicking.

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with _you_?" Harpe snapped, shaking the leg he still gripped tightly. "You're suffering Break, you don't seem to have plans to get an aid, you don't have of the things you'll need, you're not— wait, how strong was the bond? Do you need a doctor? Or a therapist? Severed bonds _kill_ people, Keith, this is serious!"

"You don't think I know that?" Keith demanded, moving his hands so he could glare at Harpe.

"If you know, then why haven't you _told_ anyone? Why don't you have the supplies, an aid, anything?" Harpe demanded, giving Keith's shoulder a shake. "Come on, Keith, don't play around with this. You have to tell someone."

"It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't— are you hearing yourself? This is post-intermissum depression. Hun, my dad…" Harpe let Keith go, his hands falling limply into his lap.

Sensing a land mine, Keith sat up slowly, leaning against the brick wall behind his bed. Harpe followed his example, tilting his head back to look up to the high ceiling.

"After my parents divorced, my dad had some bad Post-I. Like _bad_ , bad Post-I," Harpe said quietly. Keith's heart plummeted.

"Please tell me your dad didn't—"

"No!" Harpe said, sitting upright and waving his hands at Keith frantically. "No, he didn't, you know, he's fine! I mean, it's been two years but he's still fighting."

"Weren't your parents were married for, like, a decade, though? Probably more than that," Keith said, tugging at a string on his duvet. "A broken bond that was built for that long is going to hurt and it's going to take forever to heal from. A bond building over a month shouldn't be so…"

"Okay, I'm not saying we should get you on suicide watch or hook you up to an IV or anything. I'm just saying that this would be easier if you had someone to get through it with you," Harpe said. "Someone you trust and like being around, like Hunk. Where is he, by the way?"

"Oh, Grandma Talia is getting her surgery tomorrow, so he took the train down," Keith said, eyeing the empty spots in Hunk's side of the room where things used to sit but had been packed to travel home with their owner.

"You didn't go with? You guys are usually attached at the hip."

"Yeah, well, I'm a little wrapped up in my own drama, right now. He probably didn't want me upsetting his family. They're already suffering," Keith said, eyes welling up again.

"No way is that true," Harpe said in a softer voice, leaning to bump shoulders with Keith. "Didn't he ask you to go with him?"

Keith shook his head, "He left before I woke up the morning after the whole Lance thing."

"Honey," Harpe said, face creased with sympathy. "So, you're alone. Like, actually alone."

Keith nodded, not having the energy to hold back the hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He pulled his knees up and folded his arms over them, hiding his face in the long sleeves of his sweater. Hunk's sweater.

"Aw, sweets, I'm sorry," Harpe said, watching helplessly as his classmate cried.

"I-it's okay," Keith said with a watery grin. "I-I've go-gotten through wors-se alone."

Harpe sighed, watching Keith scrub furiously at his teary eyes.

"Hey, stop that," he said, grabbing Keith's fists. "You'll rub those pretty eyes raw."

"Don't care," Keith whined childishly as he squirmed to free his wrists.

Harpe only held on tighter, transferring his grip to one hand so he could throw an arm around Keith's back. He pulled Keith close, chin pressing against Keith's head to cover as much of the crying body in his arms as possible. It was an awkward, restraining hug. All pointy elbows and boney knees.

"My dad's friends held him when he was going through Post-I. He said contact helps," Harpe explained as Keith's sobs get louder and louder.

"You gotta remember to breathe, sweets," he warned when Keith's cries became gasps. "I know it feels like you can't, like your heart is going to burst, but it won't. I promise, it won't. I'll hold you together until you can do it on your own."

"Head," Keith complained between gasps.

"Migraine, huh?" Harpe guessed. "That's normal. Your body is trying hard to figure out what hurt you and how to heal it, which is making all this pain you're feeling on top of the broken bond. If it gets too bad, you gotta let me know, okay? Break symptoms can get serious enough for a hospital trip."

Keith nodded, the top of his head bumping softly against Harpe's chin. Keith definitely didn't know Harpe well enough to be this close to him, or to get through Break with his help. But his panicking brain and stressy hormones were demanding comfort and attention because of the sudden Break, which felt like a literal snap inside him, and Keith needed someone.

"I know it would be easier if, you know, _he_ was doing this," Harpe said heavily. "Or if Hunk was, but I can be your aid. If you want. I haven't helped anyone through a Break, but I've seen it, so I kinda know what to do. I mean, I at least know what to look out for to know if you have to go to the hospital."

Keith was silent for a moment. Getting through Break was going to suck, with or without an aid, and that was a fact. It was easier with an aid, but Keith didn't want anyone doting over him like he was an injured baby, and he didn't need pitiful, compassionate looks. He just wanted to be able to cry about a boy or a headache and not be embarrassed about it.

But he was faced with someone who actually kind of knew how to help him and he still wanted to cry, but he also sort of wanted to be held. Like a baby. Because that's what he was.

"Keith, it's okay if you wanna say no. I'm sure you have loads of friends who'd be willing to be here for you," Harpe said, loosening his grip around Keith's waist. "I can call someone for you, if you want."

Keith shook his head frantically, fingers becoming claw-like as they dug into Harpe's soft t-shirt.

"Okay, okay, I can stay," Harpe promised. "Man, this Break thing has really done a number on you, huh? Before, you wouldn't let me come within ten feet of you."

Keith snorted, pressing his shame-burnt face into Harpe's shoulder.

"Hey, don't be embarrassed," Harpe said, poking Keith in the stomach. "Don't worry, I'm not leaving until you want me to. Even if that's before your Break is done. If you want someone else here at any time, I'll get whoever you want."

"Lance," Keith heard himself say in a pitifully small voice, heart throbbing at just the sound of the name. Keith cried out at the tight pain that welled back up in his chest, and the arms around him tightened.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, honey," Harpe said into Keith's hair, sending warm air against the side of his head. "I'm here, and I've got you."

 **AN:**

 **For anyone who would like straight up definitions for some of the made-up medical stuff in here:**

 **Post-intermissum depression or Post-I: depression experienced after rejection from a soulmate or, more commonly, after the breaking of a bond; intermissum meaning "break" in Latin**

 **Break : slang for the process of both the breaking of a bond and the healing from it, may involve Post-I symptoms depending on the strength of the bond and other factors. Because of the risk of Post-I and other issues, Break is usually not spent alone. It's important to note that 20 out of 100 Breaks result in a bond forming between the afflicted and the aid, which poses its own dangers as these bonds are particularly fragile and Break from them often causes serious damage to the victim originally afflicted by Break.**


	23. Brother's Keeper

**AN:**

 **It's Freedom Day my friends!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **TRIGGER WARNINGS: brief description of emotional abuse/manipulation (female abuser+male victim)**

 **Ch23— Brother's Keeper**

"Dios," Lance grumbled as he grabbed the arm of the couch and he stumbled on useless legs. "This Break thing is getting out of hand."

Lance felt his Break in his legs. They tingled restlessly and were always either wobbly and weak, or achy and cramped. It was fitting that it was his legs. They were the only truly important part of himself. He couldn't dance without them, and if he couldn't dance, he was trapped and unable to do his job.

"No one to blame but myself," he said quietly as he sunk down onto the couch cushion. Afterall, it was he who had rejected Keith and, apparently, broke the tiny bond that was growing between them.

His right leg gave a desperate twitch. Even his muscles wanted to be back at the studio. They knew they were supposed to be running around or dancing, but Lance wasn't letting them. So, they just complained through a series of aches and cramps.

"If you would just stop hurting, maybe this Break thing would go faster, and we could all get back to the studio sooner," Lance complained to his shaking legs. He huffed and flopped back onto the plush couch while one leg trembled lightly and the other twitched spasmodically.

"This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to get around, huh? I can't even use crutches because you stupid legs keep spazing all over the place!"

This whole thing wouldn't have been nearly as terrifying if he had suddenly felt the cramping and shaking. But it wasn't sudden. It was slow. A twitch here. A jerk there. Pins and needles every now and then. Then it started getting worse and worse, until about an hour ago. Before then, Lance had no idea when the severity would stop increasing, nor how far it would go.

Technically, Lance could still use his legs. He wasn't paralyzed, the shaking wasn't going to be permanent, the cramps weren't debilitating. The only danger was how those dumb legs seemed to enjoy giving out under him without warning. It was impossible to get anything that might help with the pain and cramps because, if he tried walking, Lance would probably fall down the stairs or trip out a window. Then Break would be the least of his worries.

Lost in his internal complaints, Lance almost missed the doorbell, which rang twice. Hope swelled in his chest. Pidge was supposed to come by after work and help Lance manage with his legs, but it was still early. Pidge's shift got off at three, which wasn't for another few hours.

"Pidge?" he called out without getting up. "Did they let you go early?"

"Um," came a deep voice at the front door. "I'm not Pidge."

"Who is – wait, Luis? Is that you?" Lance asked, more startled than surprised.

"Yeah, um, can I come in?" Luis asked tentatively like he expected to be tossed out to the curb on him bum. It wasn't far from what he deserved, but that would make Lance feel bad and he already felt like crap for accidentally starting Break for himself and Keith, and because of the misbehaving legs situation.

"Door's unlocked," Lance said carelessly, swiping a magazine off his coffee table and beginning to flip through it with half his attention.

The door creaked open and Luis stepped in, dressed to the nines in a charcoal suit and a plum dress shirt. He awkwardly hedged into the living room, hands going into his pockets as he leaned in the wide doorway between the living room and the foyer.

"So," he said stiffly. "How have you been?"

Lance didn't even look up from the magazine in his hands. "I'm fine," he said airily.

"Good, good. I've been okay, too. I moved out of Gina's place, so that's new."

"Cool."

"Yeah, it's been pretty hard, but I have decent credit and some good friends in real estate, so I got a good deal on a place nearby."

"Fantastic."

"It's a nice place, I think you'll like it. It's less than a mile away—"

"And just why would you want to live that close to me?" Lance asked sharply. "Still trying to convince yourself that you're looking after me?"

"Lance," Luis sighed as he came to sit on the couch. Lance scooted to increase the distance between them but found himself awkwardly flopping to the side with uncooperative legs. "Hey, are you okay?"

"My legs fell asleep."

"Ah. You should be careful about your posture. Slouching like that can—"

"That's great, Luis." Lance said disinterestedly, slouching further in his seat.

"Look, I moved in nearby so we can see each other more often," Luis said pleadingly.

"Why would either of us want that?"

Luis gave Lance an exasperated look. It was the kind of look that a parent would give a kid who was acting out. Lance had been on the receiving end of that look many times from many people. It hardly affected him now.

"I know you're mad at me. And you have every right to be, of course. But, someday, I hope we can put this behind us—"

"I'm not one of your politician buddies, or your business partners, or whoever you use that kind of talk with, alright? That talk is cheap, and I'm a Gucci hoe," Lance said, frowning at an article in his magazine that discussed the dangers of using certain brands of makeup. Those dangers had to be real severe for Lance to ditch his favourite line, which was fifth on the list of hazardous brands.

"Lance, seriously. I'm trying to talk to you and— what just happened with your leg?" Luis asked suddenly, actual concern seeming to colour his tone.

Lance glanced down at his legs, having grown used to the minor tremors.

"Oh, that? Eh, overuse. They're just tired," he said, pretending to shake out his limbs.

"Lance."

"Yeah."

"I've been your brother for twenty years. I know when you're lying."

"Don't pretend to know me," Lance spat, dropping his apathetic act and glaring at Luis. "You walked out of my life when I was fourteen and you never looked back. Don't pretend to care now."

"Lance, come on," Luis pleaded. "I know abandoned you, but I'm here now."

"Well, that just makes up for it then, doesn't it?" Lance sneered.

"Lance, just let me try. We'll do this on your terms. Whatever you want, I'll do. If you want me to leave right now and never come back, I will. If you want to let me try to be your brother, we'll do that."

"Stop treating me like a customer that you're trying to guilt trip into buying your bullsh—"

"I'm sorry, I—" Luis leaned forward to put head in his hands and was silent for a moment. "Business and law is all I know, anymore. Business, law, and Gina. I don't know how to talk to people. I… I don't know my family."

"And whose fault is that?" Lance spat without sympathy. He tossed his magazine back on the coffee table with a sharp smack.

"I know it's mine. It's all my fault, but I always stayed up to date on you. Okay? I always knew how you were doing. I never really abandoned you."

Besides Luis' misunderstanding of what "abandoned" mean, Lance didn't like how his brother said any of that. He said it like a promise, or some kind of meaningful thing. Like it was supposed to make all of this okay now.

"Wait, you never called…" Lance said slowly.

Luis had never contacted Lance after he left. Lance would've known because he checked his phone every day to see if he missed a call. Luis also never called the house because Lance used to check their landline all the time, too, looking for Luis' number on the missed calls list. So how could Luis stay "up to date" on Lance's life without calling Lance or the family?

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Who's your rat?" Lance demanded evenly.

"My what?" Props to Luis for his acting skills. He looked genuinely confused.

"Who's giving you info on me and how do I make them stop?"

"Lance," Luis looked pretty upset and guilty. Lance almost felt bad.

Almost.

"Who is it?" he repeated through grit teeth.

"I… please don't get mad. It wasn't her fault."

"Her? Was it one of my dancers?" Lance rapidly went through a list of names and faces he had catalogued in the back of his mind. None of his dancers knew enough about him, other than his career, to keep Luis updated on his life. Maybe it was one of the waitresses he worked with— or maybe it was a regular customer—

"Pidge."

"What about Pidge?" Lance asked, startled out of his internal information scramble.

"She's my source."

Lance cocked his head. At first, he thought it was just a dumb joke. Or maybe Luis had the wrong name for the wrong person. Or maybe Luis was just a little dumb.

"I hate to break it to you, bro, but Pidge is a dude. So, if your contact was a girl, you got the wrong person," Lance said, mildly amused.

"Lance, stop joking. I know Pidge is a girl, I asked her years ago because I couldn't tell and—" Luis stopped. "Wait, she didn't tell you?"

"You're carrying this joke pretty far, dude, what are you trying to get out of this?" Lance asked suspiciously.

"Her name isn't really Pidge. It's Katie. She lost her father and brother to some kind of science expedition, ran away from home, and brought them back. She graduated high school at the age of fifteen, took a gap year working with NASA through an internship programme, built a—"

"Alright, alright, I get it. You know Pidge," Lance interrupted. He paused a moment as he rethought all of his life decisions. "So she's actually a girl? Wait does everyone know about this?"

"I mean, probably," Luis said with a shrug. "She doesn't hide it or anything. Some people just assume she's a guy, I guess."

"That's why Keith looked at me funny when called Pidge my brother. I just thought he was racist because we're different— well, I feel slightly betrayed, but at least I know Keith's not a bigot," Lance said with a shrug. "Anyways, so, you called him— _her_ , Jeezus— up every other year and asked what I was up to? Instead of coming to me?"

"I get that you're probably mad at Pidge for talking to me, but I had to know you were okay. I mean, when you were fifteen—"

"We don't have to talk about that," Lance interrupted, arms folding tighter.

"I-I'm sorry. I just… it was a year after I left. I thought you were okay, but—"

"Yeah, that wasn't about you." _Lies_. "So, don't flatter yourself. You're not that important." _Lies_.

"Oh. Well, that's good. I just… I heard about, you know, _that,"_ Luis said awkwardly. "I heard about that, and I had to know you were okay. I… I visited you in the hospital. You were still under, but I came. I saw Pidge and we made an arrangement."

"An 'arrangement,' huh? Is that what the kids are calling it?" Lance asked with a dark glare. "Just how often did you guys gossip about me?"

"Weekly. Sometimes more often, if I was… feeling down," Luis admitted quietly. Wasn't that just sweet. Lance reminded himself that Luis' job was to lie and act, especially when he had a goal in mind.

"Wait did you say weekly?"

"Yeah."

Lance had expected yearly. Biyearly at most. Dang, but weekly... That was 52 times. Pidge outed him about everything going on in his life to his abandoning older brother 52 times a year.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since… since you were fifteen."

Every week. 52 weeks in a year. Five years. 52 times five. That's roughly a whopping 260 gossipy phone calls between someone he thought he could trust and someone he knew he never could. 260 times, and yet Luis couldn't take the time to knock on his door. Or ring him. Or even text.

"In any of that time," Lance said through grit teeth, fists clenching in his lap, "In any of the time that passed through five whole freaking years, did it ever occur to you that I wanted to talk to you? That I wanted to know you, too? And see you? Because, back then, there was nothing I wouldn't have given for my big brother care about me again."

Luis stared at Lance with wide, wet eyes. He looked like he was at both a Christmas party and a wake. His breath caught and his mouth was tight, so he was probably only moments from tears. But Lance couldn't bring himself to care. Luis put him through hell. He deserved to be upset.

"I never stopped. I never stopped caring. I swear to God. I just never thought… I never even dared to hope that…" Luis shook his head and buried his face in his hands.

The sunlight that peeked between the partially closed curtains caught on his fancy wristwatch. A bright spot reflected off it and onto the ceiling before skittering to shine directly in Lance's tired eyes when Luis reached for the tissue box on the coffee table.

Lance winced, eyes scrunching shut and hand going to press at his temple as his head began to throb. Break symptoms were getting worse. Great. Just what he needed, now that he had a crying, stalkerish, neglectful brother on his hands. In response to the pain in his head, Lance's left leg seized up into a decent cramp.

" _Por Dios_ ," he hissed, free hand going to clutch his thigh. He registered briefly that Luis had scooted closer and was asking him what was wrong.

"Hurts," Lance bit out between clenched teeth. He felt warm hands on his leg, looking for a wound, but he shook his head. There was no wound. The pain was, technically, made up because it was Break, not a physical injury. Sadly, however, that didn't make Break harmless.

"There's no cut or anything, I don't understand," Luis started, sounding confused and frantic.

"Break," Lance said, gasping through the cramp and the migraine.

"What?" Luis asked, snapped momentarily out of his panic.

"Accidentally rejected Keith," Lance said with a lazy shrug. "Oops."

"Accidentally— how do you accidentally reject a soulmate?"

"Freaked out. He thought I was freaking out because it was him. Thinks I rejected him. Apparently, my body thinks so, too," Lance said, the jerky sentences taking all his energy.

"Okay, okay," Luis said under his breath. "Uh, what do you need? What do I do?"

"Don't worry, I won't, like, die," Lance said almost glumly. "I'm the rejecter, so Keith is getting the brunt of it. Just hurts like nothing else."

"Okay, but what do I do?" Luis asked, looking a little calmer.

"Just leave," Lance groaned as another wave of cramps rocked through his leg. He had no pain tolerance. Literally, none. This was going to suck.

"What? No, I can help! I mean, you obviously need help."

"Don't need help," Lance said, shaking his head quickly.

"Lance, please," Luis said, kneeling in front of him. "You've been dealing with so much and I— just let me help."

Maybe it was the soothing, musky smell of Luis' familiar cologne. Maybe it was the warm hands heating up his aching muscles, or the look of desperation in Luis' normally blank eyes. Lance wasn't sure what it was, but he knew something had to be up when he felt himself nodding.

"There's some heating packs in the bathroom closet. Stick two in the microwave for twenty seconds," Lance ordered.

"Got it, I'll be quick," Luis promised.

"And grab some Advil or whatever's in the medicine cabinet."

While Luis was rummaging through the bathroom, Lance tilted his head over the back of the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. His neck felt, for lack of a better word, _tired_. It was stiff and burned, like he had been looking down for hours.

"I'm back," Luis said, bustling back into the living room. He had the heat packs and a small white bottle of pain meds that clacked musically as he raced to Lance. "Do you want to lay down in your room?"

Lance nodded, making grabby hands for the meds. He dry-swallowed three after Luis got the child-lock undone, and he was promptly scolded for the high dose.

"Shush and help me upstairs," Lance demanded. And then he was swooped into Luis' surprisingly strong arms like a princess or a bride. "Seriously? I meant, like, let me lean on you. Not for you to pick me up."

"Like you can walk on those legs. I remember how you were as a kid," Luis said with a half-grin. "You always threw a fit over papercuts and bruises. Acted like you were dying."

"Yeah, well," Lance grumbled as he set the heated packs on his legs and practically melted from the delicious warmth they poured through his skin. "I'm delicate, okay? Precious cargo and all that."

"And yet, you can dance for eight hours and not even flinch at the blisters you get afterwards."

"I just really hate cramps— ouch!" Lance stiffened as another round of cramps raced through his legs.

"Here we are, hold on, hold on," Luis said softly, like he was trying to sooth a colicky baby.

Thankfully, the door to Lance's bedroom was open so the pair didn't have to fumble with a doorknob. Luis used his elbow to turn on the light, which was a soft glow that didn't light the room much more than the sun streaming from the window did.

"Can you get the heated blanket from my closet?" Lance asked as he was gently lowered onto his bed.

Luis disappeared in the closet and came back with an ocean blue blanket that had a grey chord dangling from it. He plugged it in and spread it over Lance and his heated packs, tucking him in and pulling the heavy duvet over him.

"Anything else I can get?"

"No. Now it's just the battle to sleep."

"It hurts that bad?" Luis asked, wincing sympathetically as he eased onto the edge of the bed. Lance scooted over to make room for him to sit and shrugged.

"No, I just suck at sleeping."

"Well, I'd get you something for that, but you just took three painkillers—"

"I'm fine!" Lance whined, rolling on his side to face his brother. "I built up a tolerance."

"Maybe you should be more careful with those," Luis suggested in a very careful tone.

"Probably," Lance agreed. "But I'm not gonna."

Luis grinned exasperatedly, almost fondly. He shook his head and chuckled softly, glancing around the room as he did so. His grin grew.

"Is that us?" he asked, pointing at a big collage of pictures on the wall.

Pictures hung in different sizes and at different angles, all splayed against the otherwise neat wall. There were a few Christmas photos and old Polaroids from when they were kids, a couple of school pictures, and even some post cards and letters.

"Yeah, I found some pictures and letters in a big box the day I moved out," Lance explained. "They were hidden up in the attic and looked like it hadn't been touched in decades, so I decided to keep it. Mom never called about it, so I figured she didn't care that it was gone."

"Oh," Luis said in a small voice. "Um, some of these look recent. Where did they come from?"

"Some of the postcards are from Veronica, and Marco and his girlfriend. They send some when I'm away performing and miss home. A bunch of the pictures are group photos with companies and dancers I've performed and worked with. The rest are just snaps of people in my life."

"I see you got one of Veronica and Marco fighting in the front seat," Luis said with a soft grin as he touched the corner of the tattered photo of their siblings pulling each other's hair while Marco was trying to drive.

"The first day they started driving me to work and picking you up from yours," Lance said wistfully. "I thought everything was fixed. We were all a big family again."

"I'm sorry, Lance," Luis said, looking guilty.

"Nah, it's okay. It takes two, you know?"

"You tried. You used to text and call me all the time. You even showed up at my door once or twice," Luis sighed, edging more onto the bed and crossing his legs. "I'm sorry. That I never texted back, never picked up your call, never answered the door."

"You could've just said 'leave,' or 'I don't want to talk to you.' But you never said a thing. You just ignored me," Lance said hesitantly. The air between himself and Luis felt fragile.

"If I could go back, I would answer on the first text," Luis said before shaking his head. "No, I would've brought you with me and never have moved in with Gina."

That caught Lance's attention. Luis practically ran away once he was old enough to support himself. He was given a position at the company Gina worked at and moved in with her, taking his whole life with him and never looking back.

Lance always assumed it was partly because he wanted to leave the family behind and start his own life. That would've been pointless, had he brought Lance along. Lance was fourteen, at the time. He was a liability. A mouth to feed, a kid to get through school, someone who needed to be looked after. That wasn't was Luis wanted.

"Why?" was Lance's simple question.

"Why what?"

"Why would you want me?"

Luis froze and stared at Lance with shocked eyes. "Kid, I always wanted you."

Lance snorted, but Luis shook his head and continued.

"I wanted you to stay with me, but Gina… after I moved in, she told me she didn't want kids. Even if it was my kid," Luis smiled sadly and looking pointedly at Lance, who felt his nose and eyes begin to sting.

"I was so stupid," Luis said, hands clenching into fists. "She wanted me to stay away from my family because she didn't like that they 'hurt me.' I thought she was trying to protect me, so I agreed. I had a lot of issues with Mom and Dad, so it wasn't a big deal, at first. And then she didn't want me to see my Lance. I-I thought about it, but— but I still agreed and—" Luis broke off as his voice cracked.

That was a lot. That was a lot Lance didn't know. He thought Luis left because he was sick of their family and chose his freedom over his little brother. He thought Luis never called or came back for Lance because he didn't want him anymore. He thought Luis hated him and was just trying to cozy back up to him now for some kind of personal gain.

But Luis and Gina split up. Gina was the one who made Luis

stay away from his family and may have had a hand in Luis leaving. She probably even had something to do with why Luis acted so strangely when they started carpooling five years after he had left. Why he was so angry and cold with his own siblings.

"You were being controlled," Lance said slowly as the pieces began to fall into place. "You didn't see it, did you? But once you realized what was going on, you thought we wouldn't take you back, so you acted like you didn't care. That's why you were being a douche all the times we picked you up."

Luis smiled sadly, hand going to pet down Lance's probably mussed up hair.

"This takes me back, you know," Luis said softly. "When you were little, any time you got sick, you wanted me to be there. Not Mom or Dad. Me. I always liked that."

Lance mulled that over, gnawing on his lip. He hadn't talked to Luis like this since high school. He always fantasized about it, when he was younger. He thought of what he would say, how he'd make Luis want him back, how he would convince his big brother to come home.

"I always thought it was something I did to make you leave," Lance admitted. "That there was something wrong with me and you didn't want to be around me. That's why I stalked you for a year. I wanted to be with you, but I really just wanted to apologize. And you're here now, so, I'm sorry. You know, for whatever I did."

Luis stared at Lance, looking slightly horrified.

"Have you… for the past six whole years, have you been thinking that this was all your fault? That I left because of you?"

"Yeah, I mean… all I knew about Gina was whatever I heard through the walls when Mom and Dad argued. I didn't know that leaving was her idea," Lance admitted, feeling a little dumb. "And still. For you to not even call or say goodbye… I had to have done something. Just tell me how to make it right," Lance pleaded, not caring how pathetic he sounded.

His head hurt, his legs hurt, his heart was aching, he was exhausted, he was pretty sure he was crying, and he just wanted his brother back to make things better. When they were kids, Luis was always there to fix things if Lance was ever hurt, sick or unhappy for a millisecond. And that's what Lance wanted. He wanted his big brother to fix everything.

"You didn't do anything, _Corazón_ ," Luis said thickly. He brushed a tear off Lance's face. "I was just really blind and stupid. I thought Gina knew best."

"You promised," Lance whined thinly. "You promised we'd always have each other."

"I know, I know," Luis said with a warbling voice. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Are you leaving again?"

"Never," Luis said firmly, laying down next to Lance.

"Promise," Lance ordered shakily. "On your grave."

"I promise on my grave."

Lance nodded, hesitantly scooting across the big bed towards Luis, who opened his arms for Lance to roll into them. They didn't fit as well as they did as kids. Lance was always on the small side, so they used to fit well when they were young, but now they were the same size.

"You staying?" Lance asked tentatively, poking at a button on Luis' suit jacket.

"As long as you want."

"Then change into something that's comfier to sleep on. Your buttons keeping stabbing my face," Lance complained.

Luis laughed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt he found in the bottom drawer of the bureau, as Lance directed. After he was dressed, he eased back onto the bed next to a half-asleep Lance, who curled up next to him the moment he was horizontal.

"Tired, _Tesoro_?" Luis asked with a chuckle.

Lance scrunched his nose in response.

"Go to sleep, Kid, I'll be here when you wake up."

Lance sighed contentedly, resituated the heating packs on his legs, and dropped his head on his brother's shoulder, ready for good, long nap.

 **AN:**

 **We love over-done, brotherly fluff.**

 **The cute little names Luis used are purely platonic. They can be used between lovers, but Lance is Luis' little brother. He's still a cute little bean to him, so he's gonna use cute little names on him.**


	24. The Call

**AN:**

 **Guess who just realized terms of endearment don't get capitalized. You'd think I never read, huh?**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Ch24— The Call**

"Your fever's still going up," Harpe commented stiffly to a barely lucid Keith. "Any higher and we may need a trip to the hospital—"

"No hosp'l," Keith grumbled.

"Whatever you say, baby. You up for food? Maybe give your body some fuel to burn so it stops burning you?"

Getting Keith to eat for the past three days had been like trying to feed broccoli to a toddler with a stomach-ache; it was a lose-lose situation that ended in tantrums and headaches, or worse. Keith had yet to actually toss up any of the ginger ale and reheated soup that Hunk had stored in the freezer for emergencies, thank God. If (once) they reached the vomiting stage, things were going to start gearing towards the "hospital trip" plan.

"Food? Food 's dumb," came a late and slurred response. "An' feeding a fever 's a myth."

Harpe shook his head and chuckled quietly as Keith flopped onto his back on his bed, hand groping across the duvet. Knowing exactly what Keith was looking for, Harpe leaned farther back against the side of the bed from his seat on the floor. Leaning towards the disturbance that pushed against his bed, Keith's sweaty forehead found its way to Harpe's cool, dry shoulder.

"Comfy, bud?" Harpe asked with a soft grin as Keith curled to the edge of the bed so the majority of his body was pressed against Harpe's back.

"Food's for th' weak."

"Hate to tell you, honey, but you're pretty weak, right now.

"Pretty?" Keith asked, eyebrows scrunching together. Of course, that's the only word he'd pick up on.

"Yes, you're very pretty Keith. Now will you eat some soup if I go make some for you?"

Keith preened sleepily at the compliment before nodding reluctantly.

"Good boy," Harpe said, patting Keith's head as he stood.

"Where goin'?" Keith complained while lazily reaching up to grab Harpe's shirt.

"I have to make you soup, remember?"

Keith let out a distressed and irritated whine.

"I can have someone come sit with you until I'm back. No one would mind."

"'m fine," Keith said with a tremulous voice.

"You sure?"

"Uh-huh," Keith said, eyes closed.

"100%, not lying, would be totally okay with being alone for ten minutes?"

"Hun'ed p'cent, not lyin', to'lly 'kay 'lone. Ten min'."

"You're a real champ," Harpe said with a fond smile. He ruffled a hand through Keith's long, sweaty hair and found his shirt being released a second later.

"Ten min'," Keith said sharply, opening one drowsy eye to make sure he had Harpe's attention.

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Tha's a terr'ble thing to hope f'r."

"Then I better make it back in ten, huh?"

Keith grunted and rolled over, smacking his knee into the wall. He let out a hiss that sounded more annoyed than pained.

"You okay?"

"Stupid wall. Thinks it can… hit me 'n… 'n get away with it," Keith said, words getting slower as he started nodding off mid-sentence.

Harpe shook his head and left Keith to his nap, heading downstairs to heat up the rest of Hunk's emergency soup. He wasn't sure what was in it, but Keith loved it and drank it by the bowl-full, when Harpe demanded he ate something other than crackers. Thinking of Keith alone in his room, Harpe picked up his pace and took the stairs two at a time.

At the end of the stairs, Harpe spun completely around and jogged into the big kitchen. At the huge table across from the island by the stove and sink was a crowd of familiar faces, most of them being residents of the house. Before he could process who all was gathered at the table, Harpe's thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice he immediately recognized as Lou.

"He emerges from the cave of pain!" Lou crowed boisterously.

"Shut up, Lou, he's trying to be a good friend," Marisol scolded as Andrew kicked Lou's shin from across the table. "Sorry about him. We're trying to train him, but Neanderthals can only be civilized so much."

"Don't worry about it," Harpe said with an easy smile, hoping the stress and concern for his patient weren't showing through. Judging by the sudden quiet and the somber atmosphere in the kitchen, he was doing a poor job.

"So, how's our favourite earth-shaker?" Andrew asked, interrupted the awkward silence. "Last I heard he was a little feverish, but okay."

"His temp is rising," Harpe said quietly, heading towards the ancient fridge that looked like it was straight out of the 40's. "He's still coherent, but I think he's getting worse."

"Break gets worse before it gets better, but if you need a ride to the hospital, I don't mind driving," Marisol said warmly.

"Thanks, but let's hope it doesn't come to that," Harpe said before ducking behind the freezer door he just opened.

With stiff fingers, Harpe dug through layers of frozen pizzas, bags of fries, and cartons of ice cream until he found a half-filled container of soup in the back. It had been hidden behind a few bags of frozen vegetables for safe keeping.

"Hey, at least he has an appetite," Lou said, gesturing to the container of soup Harpe had pulled from the freezer.

"It comes and goes," Harpe admitted. "I try to take advantage and get him as fed as I can."

"Dude, you'd make a great mom," Lou said thoughtfully.

"Thanks, Sugar, you sure do know just what a fella needs to hear," Harpe said with a wink.

Marisol watched him closely over the rim of her tea mug as he turned around to face the counter and dumped the frozen soup block into a big blue bowl found in the drying rack. He heard a huff from Marisol when he set the bowl in the microwave and began punching in the timer.

"That's not microwave safe."

"It is now."

"Correction: Harpe would be a great dad."

"Why do we never have clean spoons?" Harpe complained as he began rummaging through the small drawer of silverware beside the oven. "What are you people doing with all the spoons?"

"That kid named Lex Something needed them for a project. They said they'd buy new ones."

"We've been surviving on whatever we can find," Marisol said with a sigh, lifting a fork out of her tea mug. "These idiots failed to mention that someone bought plastic spoons before I dedicated to using a fork to stir with."

"This is ridiculous. I'm living like a caveman," Harpe complained. He plucked a plastic spoon from the bunch that stood like flowers in a vase he just noticed sitting on the island.

"Tell Keith we hope he gets better soon," Lou said as the microwave beeped impatiently.

"And that we'll go get him anything he needs," Marisol added.

"Thanks guys. He'll really appreciate that," Harpe lied through his teeth.

No way would Keith accept help from neighbors he barely talked to. He only really knew Marisol through the benefit, and even she was held at a safe distance.

Gathering the bowl under a mostly clean tea towel he found hanging from the handle of the oven, Harpe trekked back upstairs and tried not to roll his eyes at the number of "get well" messages he gathered for Keith on the way.

"Hey, sweetness, did you miss— woah, what's wrong?" Harpe's flirty "hello" usually made people smile, but the moment he started speaking, Keith rolled over in the bed and gave him a heartbroken look.

"Can't hear it," Keith whispered. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, elbows resting against his raised knees.

"What can't you hear, love?" Harpe asked, panic rising.

"The-the music, I can't—" Keith let out a frustrated groan, tapping his fist to the side of his head.

"Wow. That was faster than expected," Harpe said, mildly surprised. He had expected Keith's Break to progress much slower because of how out of it the guy had been acting lately.

"Sucks."

"I know, honey."

"I hated it when I could hear it, but now…" Keith trailed off, a desperate and sad look painting his face.

"I know, I'm sorry," Harpe said, sitting on the edge of Keith's bed and offering him the plastic spoon. "Can you eat for me? The bowl's a bit heavy, so I'll hold it for you."

Keith nodded and slowly began to feed himself with a shaky hand, sniffling between bites. Harpe ran his free hand through Keith's hair, scrunching his nose at the gross texture of the oily, matted mess.

"When you're done, we need to get you a bath."

"No," Keith said firmly, looking straight into Harpe's eyes with his spoon in the air and full of broth. "Absolutely not."

"Keith, it's unhealthy to go more than, like, three days without a shower," Harpe said pleadingly. "You'll probably feel better when you're all clean."

"You are _not_ giving me a bath."

"You can wash yourself. I'll just sit nearby to make sure you don't fall asleep and drown."

"Not happening."

"I will sit in this room and squirt water at you until you take a bath."

"You're kidding," Keith said, looking unsure of himself.

"Try me," Harpe said, leaning back against the wall with an almost-empty bowl in his lap.

Keith glared at him, fiddling with the spoon in his hands until he slouched and gave a sigh of defeat.

"Whatever. The hot water will probably help my stupid sore muscles."

"You're sore?" Harpe asked, sitting up straight.

"Don't mother-hen me, I'm not going to die from a sore back."

"Hey, we didn't agree that you would only tell me things that you think could need medical attention," Harpe scolded. "The deal was that you would tell me _everything_. That means every sore spot, every headache, every stomachache."

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry." He actually looked sorry, so Harpe relaxed back against the wall. "How long did it take?"

"Sorry?"

"How long did it take your dad to be…" Keith shrugged.

"To be better, or to be functioning? Because he's still not completely 100% yet."

"To be functioning. To not need to be bedridden and waited on like he's an invalid."

"Keith," Harpe said firmly, gripping his friend's ankle tightly. "You're not an invalid. You're just sick. Break happens to all sorts of people every day. Don't be hard on yourself."

"I just—" Keith broke off, tilting his head back with a frustrated groan. He winced when his head connected with the wall a bit harder than he intended.

"Careful. Break is bad enough without a concussion on top of it," Harpe said in what he hoped was a light tone.

Keith slumped forward, eyes on the hand that still encircled his ankle. He twitched his foot, seeming to test Harpe's grip. Thinking that was a plea for space, Harpe released and scooted a bit farther down the bed.

In response, Keith grimaced and slumped further down the wall of pillows that supported his back. His legs moved down the bed, foot twitching against Harpe's thigh. Eyeing Keith's expression carefully, Harpe put his hand back on Keith's leg and smiled when the wrinkles in his friend's forehead smoothed.

"You okay?" Harpe asked cautiously, not wanting to draw to much attention to Keith's weird behaviour.

Keith had a problem with asking for what he wanted. He couldn't ask for anything, whether it was an extension on an assignment, or a hug from a friend. His ridiculously closed off nature made it impossible to tell what he wanted, leaving anyone who didn't know him well (like Harpe) at a complete loss as to how to help him or even act around him.

"Fine," Keith responded in a voice that was too airy to be truthful.

"If you take a bath, I hold you until you fall asleep tonight," Harpe promised, though both of them knew he'd do it regardless.

"I already said I'd do it," Keith griped with a half-smile.

Harpe grinned and pushed himself off the bed, bustling around the room to gather clean clothes, a towel, and Keith's showering things.

"Don't want that one," Keith said suddenly, pointing to his own cheap, generic shampoo, which Harpe had just picked up off its shelf.

"Do you have another kind of shampoo?"

"No."

Still confused, Harpe cocked his head. Keith let out a frustrated sigh and gestured to the baggy, honey-coloured shirt he was wearing. It was an old one of Hunk's that Keith had been wearing since Harpe came over and offered his help with Break. That was when Harpe made the connection.

"You want Hunk's shampoo? I think he took it home with him," Harpe said apologetically.

Keith pursed his lips and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, fixing Harpe with a sassy stare.

"Don't want Hunk's."

"Who's do you want?" Harpe wracked his mind for anyone else that Keith was close to at school.

"You really gonna make me say it?" Keith asked, crossing his arms like an overtired toddler.

"Sorry, honey, I just don't know—"

"Want yours."

Harpe blinked, "Mine."

"Yes."

"Mine?"

"Harpe!" Keith whined, using the edge of his desk to pull himself up onto his feet. "Yes, yours!"

"Oh."

"You don't have to," Keith said, immediately retracting his request. "It's weird. I know. Plus, your stuff could be expensive, and I don't want to be rude and use it all because I'm a complete baby who—"

"No, no, it's not that," Harpe soothed quickly. "I just don't know which shampoo you want. I have, like, twelve."

"You're kidding," Keith said with an amused smirk.

"Nope, different shampoo for every need. There's the Peaches 'N Crème for when my hair is too dry, Coconut and Pineapple for dry scalp, Cherry Blossom for split ends, Waterfall Something for moisture and texture, Orange Blossom—"

"That one," Keith interrupted.

"You want the orange one?"

"I like the smell of oranges."

Harpe remembered the light, citrusy smell of Lance's perfume.

"You're su—"

"I'm _sure_ ," Keith said, almost desperately.

Nodding sadly, Harpe offered Keith an arm and helped him hobble down the hall to the men's room. It was big but, thankfully, empty. Keith made quick work of stripping and getting in the tub, face turning crimson when Harpe brought a chair he stole from the common room.

"This is awkward," Keith complained.

Harpe was sitting with his back to the tub in a chair he had balanced on two legs, the back resting against the tub. He casually crossed his ankles and propped them against the wall of their stall.

"It's only awkward if you make it awkward," Harpe said, turning a page in the book on his lap.

Keith didn't say anything after that, but Harpe could hear him splashing the water as he cleaned himself and shifted to get more comfortable. Everything sounded like it was going okay, until the water went still and silent.

"You okay?" Harpe asked without turning around. He lowered his book face down onto the floor and peeked cautiously over his shoulder when he didn't get an answer.

Harpe breathed a sigh of relief when he found Keith sitting upright, head safely above the water. His relief turned to empathy when he saw that Keith was holding the opened bottle of citrusy shampoo in his hand, eyes closed and breathing deeply.

"Do you want a diff—"

"No," Keith said sharply. He took a tremulous breath and let it out slowly. "No, this is fine. This is good. It reminds me."

"If it reminds you, then is it that good?" Harpe asked, turning completely around to straddle the chair. "Break is the body's way of purging and healing from a broken bond or relationship. It would be easier if you tried to get passed this."

"Harpe," Keith said with a bitter grin. "Since when have I done things the easy way."

Harpe shrugged and turned back around, picking his book up off the floor.

"Is that _Les Misérables_ in French?" Keith asked, probably having seen a page over Harpe's shoulder.

"It's a good book. The musical doesn't do it justice."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Keith said, waving off Harpe's words. "I'm more interested in the fact that it's in _French_."

"French is my first language," Harpe said. It was common knowledge, he didn't hide the fact.

"Of course, it is," Keith muttered exasperatedly as he tilted his head back, looking like he had just suffered a defeat. "The language of _love_."

"Why do you say that like it's a bad thing, _mon rayon de soleil_?" Harpe asked innocently, resting his chin on his hand and propping his elbow on the chairback.

"The hell did you just call me?" Keith splashed a bit of sudsy water at his neighbor.

"Mon étoile, mon coeur, mon bonheur," Harpe rattled off, dodging small water attacks.

"I don't like how that sounded," Keith said cautiously. "Did you say something dirty?

"Honey, you're so innocent," Harpe said with a laugh.

"Shut up, I'm not innocent!"

"Oh yeah? Tell me the weirdest thing you've done."

"What do you mean?"

"In bed. With a lover. What's the weirdest thing you've done?"

"Can we not have this conversation while I'm naked in a tub?"

"You don't have to be shy, sweetheart," Harpe said honestly. "I've probably done worse."

"I don't have to tell you anything," Keith said, fiddling with the lid of the pink shampoo bottle still in his hands.

"Pretty please? I won't tell anyone, I swear. And it's okay if whatever it was didn't work out. Trust me, I've had … er, experimental positions fail spectacularly before," Harpe said with a grimace.

"I haven't done anything," Keith said awkwardly

"Well, there's something to be said for vanilla—"

"No. I mean, I haven't done _anything_."

"Oh. You're saving yourself? That's a cool too."

"I haven't done anything because I've never been with anyone!" Keith exploded.

Harpe thanked every deity he could think of that the bathroom was empty. The echo of Keith's voice bounced around the room and seemed to get louder the longer they lingered.

"That's okay, too," Harpe said slowly, testing the waters.

"Yeah. It's totally okay that a twenty-year-old man in college has never done anything with anyone before. Completely normal, perfectly alright," Keith said with sneer.

Abort. The waters are rocky, abort further testing.

"I don't judge. If you don't want to be with someone—"

"It's not that I don't want _that_ ," Keith interrupted. "I just don't want what everyone else wants. The sexual stuff."

"There's plenty of people who don't like sexual stuff," Harpe said.

"There really _aren't_ ," Keith corrected. "No one just wants… whatever else there is besides sexual things."

"Keith. You have to know how wrong you are in that. There are a lot of people who just want a purely romantic or platonic relationship— there's a name for that, but I have no idea what it is. Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" Keith asked, looking mystified.

"I… I just," Harpe bit his lip, scooting his chair closer to the tub. "You don't know what you like, and it's giving you a lot of grief. Plus, this whole thing with Lance, and you haven't even put the shampoo on yet because you keep smelling it because it smells like him. Also, Break sucks, for you, and it's horrible to watch you be sick and in pain, and I can't actually do anyth—"

"Harpe, slow down. You're doing a lot of good for me," Keith said, catching his eye to make sure he was heard. "And as for the rest… that's just life. Everyone has to figure out who they like at some point. Everyone gets rejected at some point."

"Yeah, but…" Harpe shook his head. "It's stupid."

"Tell me."

"No."

"You made me tell you about my non-existence kinky sex life. Tell me."

"You got me there," Harpe said with a grin. "I just wish I could fix this. For you."

"That's really nice," Keith said after a minute. "Why wouldn't you want me to know that?"

"Because it sounds weird," Harpe said, feeling oddly uncomfortable under Keith's gaze.

"Hey, can you help me a second?"

"Sure, what do you need?"

Keith held the bottle of shampoo out.

"Wash my hair for me? I can't seem to actually… use the stuff. I guess because of the smell. But I like the smell, so I should be able to use it. But also, the smell kind of makes me sad? Ish? I don't even know."

Accepting the bottle, Harpe relaxed. Keith was talking and had actually asked for help; it was a good sign. Still, Harpe saw right through the request. Keith didn't need help shampooing. He needed some kind of reaffirmation. Touch. Attention. He also probably noticed Harpe's need to be useful.

"You got it, hun," Harpe said, moving to kneel behind the tub.

Keith lowered himself further into the water, so his head rested against the lip of the tub while Harpe lathered up his hair in the fruity shampoo. Harpe was careful as he scrubbed. mindful of the headache he remembered being mentioned earlier.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah. It's like… a nice little massage," Keith said sleepily, head getting heavier and heavier as he relaxed into Harpe's touch.

"Glad to be of service," Harpe said honestly.

"I know. You're trying really hard to help. You're doing good."

"Could be doing better."

"You could also not be here," Keith said sharply.

"Don't get mad. You know Hunk would be here if he could."

"I know. I'm just… Break makes my head all funny."

"How do you mean, love."

"Makes me feel weird. Like, I'm super mad at Hunk, even though I know exactly why he's not here and even though I want him here really badly," Keith complained frustratedly.

"That's normal. I mean, you've had quite the dollop of some good old emotional trauma," Harpe said. "'Break' didn't get its name for nothing, you know."

"I guess. Still sucks."

"No doubt about that," Harpe said, rinsing the shampoo out of Keith's hair carefully. "Do you want conditioner?"

"Will you shoot me if I say no?"

"Dude, I finally got you into a tub for the first time in three days. I'm just thrilled you used soap."

"I'm not that bad," Keith argued with a grin.

"Yes, you are. If you don't want conditioner, then get up. The sooner you're dry, the sooner you can sleep."

Harpe looked away while Keith rose from the sudsy water, but held his hand for support while he shimmied into his clothes. It took a bit longer than usual, due to his weak muscles and damp skin, but Keith managed to dress himself without Harpe's help, and seemed very proud of the fact.

"You alright?" Harpe asked when Keith swayed into a wall on the way back to the room. Without receiving a response, Harpe shifted Keith's toiletries to one arm and wrapped the other around Keith's waist, hauling him into the room.

"'m good," Keith slurred, yawning.

"Yeah, you just seem tired," Harpe agreed as he eased Keith onto the bed. He dropped his shampoo and Keith's soap back in the closet, threw the dirty clothes in the hamper, and hung the towel on a hook at the back of the door.

"I can sleep now?" Keith asked slowly, fists rubbing against his eyes as he let out another yawn.

Harpe felt his heart melt a bit as the serious, brooding artist became a sleepy kitten before his eyes. He crossed the room back to the bed and scooted on the bed until he sat behind Keith. He snagged a brush off the desk and ushered Keith to lay back against his chest.

"You can sleep after we get your hair brushed. If we leave it in tangles, it'll be one knot in the morning, and we don't want that."

"Don' want that," Keith repeated, squirming to find a comfortable resting place against Harpe.

"Comfy?" Harpe asked with a grin as he gently ran the brush through Keith's hair.

He was both surprised at the lack of tangles and knots he came across but was thankful. After making quick work of the brush, Keith lazily slumped to the side, head missing the pillow completely.

Chuckling, Harpe helped him wriggle under the blankets and get tucked in. Harpe got up to sit in the seat next to the bed but, just when he thought Keith was down for the count, the artist mumbled something unintelligible.

"What was that, sweet?"

"…said you'd hold me," Keith complained, blinking up at him with big doe eyes. "Changed your mind?" he asked uncertainly. And if that wasn't a shot through the heart.

"No, no, of course I didn't change my mind. I just forgot, is all," Harpe said guiltily. He knew that part of Break was a craving for the affection and touch the afflicted person couldn't get from their soulmate. It was careless and stupid to forget that.

"'s okay. Just hurry up."

"Yes, sir," Harpe said with a laugh, relieved to have been forgiven so easily. He wormed his way under the blankets behind Keith and scooped his friend up in his arms. "This good?"

"Warm," Keith said with a nod.

"Good. Let me know if you need anything. Even if I'm asleep. You can wake me up at any time, okay?"

"Okay, _Mom_."

Keith was completely passed out only seconds later, and Harpe found the room plunged into quiet. Cricket chirps outside the window sounded like whispers, and the murmur of soft conversation drifting in from other rooms sounded like nothing more than the hum of electricity. The cat Hunk and Keith weren't supposed to have made its way to Hunk's bed, where it curled on a pillow with a soft purr, and a radio somewhere outside was faintly playing an intricate guitar solo.

There was something about Hunk and Keith's room that was so _homey_. It was comfortable and warmly inviting, without being too smothering. Harpe's room, by comparison, was more chic and felt far too clinically neat and perfectly decorated to be actually lived in. The chaos and mess of Hunk and Keith's room was more than welcomed.

Then Keith's phone went off, the ring tone glaringly loud against the quiet.

"Are you serious?" Harpe mumbled. He hadn't gotten much sleep in a while because taking care of Keith was proving to be a full-time job, and he was really ready to pass out for a few hours.

Harpe's free hand scrabbled across the desk for Keith's phone before the buzzing woke up Keith. The stupid thing nearly pitched into the pit between the desk and the bed before it made its way to Harpe's ear.

"Hello?" Harpe said sluggishly after hitting the "accept call" two seconds before it went to voicemail.

"Christ, Keith, way to finally pick up the phone!" a distressed voice shouted through the receiver.

Harpe pulled the phone away from his head, blinking rapidly at the clash of the speaker's loudness. His fuzzy brain hardly processed the words being said to him. The voice sounded oddly familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"Excuse me, but Keith's been sick," Harpe said as he had recited it a hundred times to professors and classmates and friends who all wanted answers.

"Right. Of course. I knew that," the speaker said, sounding embarrassed. "Sorry about that. Listen, I need to talk to him."

"It's going to be a while," Harpe said with a sigh as he ran a hand through his friend's hair.

"Why?

"He hasn't been sleeping too well, lately, so I don't wake him up unless—" he broke off, brain finally catching up and placing where he'd heard the speaker's voice before. "Wait a second, is this Lance?"

 **AN:**

 **Have a good week, guys!**


	25. End Call

**AN:**

 **Slightly short, hella angsty.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Ch25— End Call**

Lance woke up on his hardwood floor, feeling like he'd been run over by an elephant. Groaning and sneezing from the dust gathered under his bed, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He glanced around is room, confused as to how he ended up on the floor.

"Lan..." a groggy voice trailed off from his bed.

"Pidge?" Lance asked, using the sheets hanging off his bed to drag himself into a sitting position.

"Mm… no."

Lance peeked over the edge of his bed and found Luis lying on his front, head turned so he could see Lance. He was blinking sluggishly, looking half asleep.

"Luis?" Lance said, mind supplying a vague memory of Luis helping him get to bed the night before. "You stayed."

"Try not to sound so shocked," Luis muttered around a yawn that turned into a sigh. "But I guess I deserve it. Haven't been around much, have I?" he said, smiling sadly.

"No, no, I didn't mean—" Lance dragged a hand down his face guiltily. "I just didn't remember. Sorry."

"No, it makes sense that you wouldn't expect me to have stayed. I'm sorry, too."

Lance nodded and the room settled into an uncomfortable silence. He stayed on the floor, fiddling with his hair while Luis watched him from the bed. Lance felt like he had woken up early at a sleepover and didn't have a good enough excuse to leave. And the sleepover was at his house.

"So, are you feeling better?" Luis asked cautiously, patting the side of the bed to invite Lance to sit with him.

"Yeah, surprisingly. I feel like I just had a long practice at the studio or something," Lance said, rolling his shoulders stiffly as he stood.

"Good. When did your Break start?"

"A few days ago, I think."

"That's pretty short," Luis said, sounding impressed.

"Rejecter Breaks are always shorter and easier," Lance said guiltily. "Even though I didn't actually reject him."

"Yeah, you said you kind of… ran away from him?" Luis said awkwardly, like he was trying not to offend his brother. "It makes sense that Keith would see that as rejection."

"I know, I know, but I just— I panicked!" Lance whined as he flopped onto the bed.

"So, you don't want to be with him?"

"No!"

"So, you _do_ want to be with him."

"No! Ye— I don't know!" Lance cried frustratedly. He flopped back onto his pillows, arms thrown across his eyes.

"I'm confused," Luis said, rolling onto his side to face Lance fully. "Do you, or don't you?"

"That's just it, I…" Lance buried his face into his pillow and groaned loudly.

"Lance, what's going on with you?" Luis asked softly. "I understand being torn about your feelings over someone, but you seem, uh, particularly distressed."

"Particularly distressed," Lance said with a sharp laugh.

"Does this have anything to do with… with Lotor? Or someone else like him"

"He showed up," Lance said flatly, gazing down at his duvet to avoid Luis' piercing gaze. "He was at the benefit and kind of cornered me."

"W-what?" Luis stammered, reaching out to grip Lance's arm. "He— are you okay? Did he…"

Lance smiled at the concern and leaned into his brother's support.

"Don't worry, Keith saved the day."

"Good, good, but… well, not to be insensitive, but you seemed like you had, um, worked through everything with… that guy. Not to say you were 'over it' but that you were… you know," Luis said anxiously.

"I know what you mean. I don't think I'll ever be exactly how I was before he came and messed everything up," Lance said with a sigh. "But I thought I was getting better. I guess because I was so okay around Keith, I just figured… I mean, I even considered being _you know_ with him. And it was great. I liked the idea. But then he said that we were… _you know_ and I just…"

"The idea was nice, but the actual thing is scary," Luis said understandingly. "But it's not the only thing you're worrying about, is it?"

Lance looked up at his brother, mustering up his saddest, biggest doe eyes in hopes that he would get out of explaining himself. He wasn't too surprised when Luis gave him _the look_ , which wasn't any less terrifying when paired with a sleepy scowl and messy bedhead.

"You know what I'm worried about," Lance said grumpily.

"You still think Keith has the… the ability to be like those guys?"

"I…" Lance chewed his thumbnail distractedly. "I don't think he's a bad person, or anything. But I can't help but expect it."

Luis gave him a sympathetic look, which somehow made everything worse. He knew it was pathetic He'd screwed himself out of something great and he didn't need his brother pitying him and thinking he was still a dumb kid causing trouble and needing his big brother to fix his mistakes.

"Look, I'm not a helpless little kid, anymore. I can take care of this," Lance said with false bravado.

Luis gave him a knowing look, complete with the raised eyebrow and pursed lips.

"Okay, you can stop with the looks, now, I get it. You see right through me," Lance huffed.

"I'm just concerned that you're passing up on a great opportunity."

"He's my soulmate, not a job offer," Lance said with an exasperated smile.

"Point taken," Luis said, scratching his nose as he thought for a moment. "What I meant is, well, you said it yourself. You could've had a good thing with him."

"What are you saying?"

"That maybe you can still have that good thing," Luis said slowly.

"But he's already part way through Break. If he goes through it just for me to take him back, then what was all that pain for?

"Sounds like you're making excuses."

"I'm not making excuses," Lance said indignantly. "It's a valid point, and it's not your business anyways. Or are you suddenly interested in my life, now that you don't have Gina?"

Luis glared at him, "I'm just trying to help."

"By being a hypocrite? You're telling me not to make excuses when you were spewing them last night about not being able to talk to me because you were scared you'd be rejected, you were busy with work, your girlfriend didn't want you to—"

"Alright, I get it!" Luis snapped, glaring at Lance.

Lance flinched away from him, almost pitching over the side of his bed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Luis said a little desperately. "It's just… that's my point. Don't make excuses to keep yourself from doing or getting the things you want. Especially if those are the things you love."

"I don't…"

"I have a soulmate, you know? We met, but I was with Gina and I passed up the opportunity because I convinced myself that Gina needed me, that I would be interrupting my soulmate's life if we got together, and— I just made excuses."

"I'm not— God, I'm not trying to get out of having a soulmate. I know I'm not perfect, but that's not why I'm not sure about Keith," Lance sighed, curling his knees to his chest.

"I understand that your past relationships haven't been too great," Luis said gently, hand finding its way to Lance's shoulder. "But I think you should give Keith a chance. At least try it out. You did say that you don't see him as a cruel person, right? He'd probably hear you out."

"But what if we're dating for a while and, well, people can change."

"Then talk to him. Call him. Explain why you left, why you're scared, what you two can do to be together and for you to feel safe."

Lance blinked. He didn't actually have anything to refute that with. It was solid advice.

"What, so you want me to just call him up in the middle of his Break and say 'hey, it's the guy who caused all your pain. Wanna date'?"

Luis chuckled and shook his head, "Well, I'd hope you'd have a little more tact than that, but yeah. Also, you can end his Break early if you get together."

"Yeah, but interrupting Break to start a new bond will make Keith even more vulnerable. The stress and stuff from Break added to the anxieties of a new bond could—"

"So be there to take care of him," Luis interrupted before Lance could start panicking.

"You're seriously pushing for this, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Luis said seriously. "I want to help. You deserve to be happy, Lance. I don't think you believe that, but it's true."

Lance shrugged and glanced away awkwardly. A minute later, a phone was being pushed into his hand, and his head was patted gently.

"I'm not a little kid anymore," Lance said with a grin, batting his brother's hand away.

Luis gave him a fond look, "Yeah, I know. Do you want me to go while you make the call, or—"

"Staying would be good," Lance said weakly, fiddling with the phone in his hands.

Luis smiled understandingly and scooted across the bed, so the pair sat hip to hip. Luis rested his chin on Lance's shoulder, watching him search through his contacts for Keith's number. His thumb hovered over the green "call" symbol and he took a deep breath.

He clicked the green button and brought the phone to his hear, listening to it ring. And ring. And ring. Just when he was thinking of how to condense his apology into a voicemail message, the other end picked up.

"Hello?" a groggy voice said on the other end.

"Christ, Keith, way to finally pick up the phone," Lance said, relief flushing through him.

"Excuse me, but Keith's been sick."

Lance froze, realizing that the voice wasn't Keith's, and he had no idea who's it was. Maybe Keith had moved on and this was Keith's new boyfriend.

"Right. Of course. I knew that," Lance said, recovering quickly. "Sorry about that. Listen, I need to talk to him."

"It's going to be a while," the speaker on the other end said with a heavy sigh.

"Why?"

"He hasn't been sleeping too well, lately," the voice said. "So, I don't wake him up unless— wait a second, is this Lance?"

Lance looked at Luis with a touch of fear in his eyes. Luis shrugged, not being of much help.

"Uh, yeah, I'm Lance. Who's this?"

"Hold on," the voice said, sounding irritated. There were a few rustling sounds and heavy footsteps before the sound of a door shutting filtered through the phone. "Way to finally reach out, man."

"What?" Lance asked, taken back at the sudden bitter tone of the speaker's voice.

"Keith is pretty messed up over this. He misses you like crazy, Break is going pretty bad and he's only getting worse," the speaker said accusatorily.

Lance flinched at the sharp tone and collided with Luis, who gave him a curious look.

"What's going on?" Luis asked.

"Um, someone else picked up Keith's phone. I think he's pissed at me for accidentally sending Keith into Break, which is apparently going badly."

Luis' expression softened and he wrapped an arm around Lance's back.

"I-I'm sorry Keith's not doing great. Is he going to be okay?" Lance asked into the phone.

The speaker sighed. Lance could hear the sound of chatter and vaguely wondered where whoever he was talking to was.

"I'm sorry, hun, I didn't mean to lash out. I'm just… really worried about him."

"How worried?"

"He may have to go to the hospital if he gets any worse. He's got a fever, won't eat much, sleeps all the time— I only just got him to take a bath and he had near zero energy to do it."

Lance's heart leapt to his throat and his whole body went cold. Distractedly, he noticed Luis pulling on his arm and patting him on the cheek to get his attention, and the speaker's voice through the phone getting louder.

"…okay? Lance? Talk to me, hun, are you okay?"

"W-what? Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just, um, who is this?"

"Oh, sorry, this is Harpe," the voice softer and warmer.

"Oh. Are you helping Keith through his Break?" Lance asked, a surge of something hot and bitter racing through his chest. Then he felt guilty and ungrateful, but also comforted by the speaker.

"Yeah. Don't worry, I have a little experience with it."

"Good, good. But what about Hunk? I thought he'd be Keith's assist."

"Ah," Harpe said awkwardly. "About that, um, Hunk went home for Grandma Talia's surgery the night you came over. I guess Hunk was already asleep when Keith came back and was gone the next morning, so Keith never told him."

"You mean, Keith was alone for part of his Break?" Lance asked, heart breaking a little.

"Yeah. He wasn't too far in, but he definitely wasn't feeling too great. I offered to help because it seemed like there was no one else."

"What about… I mean, he told me he doesn't have parents, but he has to have some relatives or other friends somewhere, right?" Lance asked hopefully, guilt crushing him from the inside out.

"Uh, no. Sorry, love," Harpe said sadly. "He keeps to himself. Hardly let me help him, as it is."

Lance didn't know how far back Harpe and Keith went, but he was pretty sure they weren't anything more than neighbors. But the fondness and concern in Harpe's voice told him otherwise.

"Hey, you said his Break is going bad, right? What if we could stop it?"

"You can't stop Break. You can only ride it out and treat it best you can."

"I'm talking about me taking him back, which would end his Break," Lance said, hope swelling warmly in his chest.

Luis squeezed his arm in support, looking confused as to where the phone conversation was going, but also seeming to realize the anxiety in Lance's voice.

"So, you want to accept him?" Harpe asked stiffly. "You made him go through all this— this pain, only to accept him back and end it whenever you feel like it?"

Lance felt a jag of indignation. He knew he messed up, but it wasn't completely his fault that Keith jumped to conclusions and assumed he was being rejected.

"Look, I ran when Keith said we were soulmates because I was scared, okay? I panicked and ran, but I didn't mean to reject him."

"You said, and I quote, 'thanks, but no thanks.' What was he supposed to think from that?"

"I know how it sounded," Lance said through gritted teeth, "but I just wasn't thinking straight. Plenty of people react weird when they meet their soulmate!"

"I get that you didn't try to hurt him and you're just trying to help, but I think it'd be best if you stayed out of it. Let him get past this. You did a lot of damage," Harpe said not unkindly.

"But, I want to accept him as my soulmate," Lance said like a petulant child.

"I understand that, too, but I don't think that's best for Keith. Think about what's best for him, instead of what's best for you."

Lance was quiet for a moment. Keith would want Lance to be happy because Keith was a selfless guy with a heart of gold. Keith would, theoretically, want to be with Lance. And Keith would very much want Lance to be happy being with him, right? That's how soulmates and relationships work, right?"

"I want to see Keith," Lance said firmly.

"That's not a good idea."

"You don't get to make decisions for him. If he wants to see me, then—"

"Actually, since I'm his assist and I've been taking care of him for the past few days, I do get to be consulted in the decisions he makes, according to the Bond Break and Soulmate Rejection Act of—."

"Yeah. _Consulted_. As in you get to put your two cents in the jar, but you don't get to take the jar," Lance said hotly.

"Lance, seriously, think about what's best for Keith," Harpe said again. "Let him get through Break and choose who he wants to be with. Don't rip him out of Break. It'll make him even more vulnerable and dependent on you, and you know it."

"You're worried about Keith, I get that," Lance said evenly. "But if I get him out of Break and take care of him, he'll be fine. And you know it."

"I don't want you talking to Keith. I can't control what happens after his Break is over, but I doubt he'll be so willing to go back to you. Rebuilding a bond after it's broken is going to be really hard on _both_ of you. I just— I'm tired of watching people walk all over Keith and take what they want without giving anything to him."

"You think I don't know that?" Lance said, blood boiling. "You think I haven't experienced the same kind of situations where I've done what was expected of me instead of what I wanted? Why do you think I ran awa— jeez, look, it doesn't matter. If Keith wants to end his Break and try to bond again, that's not your decision. You get a say, but you don't get the final say."

The other end of the phone was silent for a minute. Then Lance heard Harpe's muffled voice and assumed he was muttering under his breath about Lance.

"Just because you're upset, doesn't mean you get to be petty and talk smack under your breath, oka—"

"Will you hush, for a minute?" Harpe said. "I think I hear Keith."

"What? What's wrong?" Lance demanded, body going cold.

There was no response, but Lance heard Harpe's voice through the phone. He was saying something in a calm voice while a second voice whimpered and said something with a stressed tone. Harpe hushing the voice softly before turning back to the conversation with Lance.

"Sorry about that."

"Was that Keith? Is he okay?"

"Uh, nightmare, I think. A bad dream, at least. He's fine now."

Lance dropped his head back against the headboard, squishing Luis' arm between his back and the headboard.

"Harpe, I gotta talk to him. I have to. I need to explain and apologize. I really care about him and I feel so— just, please. Put him on the phone or have him call me back."

There was a moment of silence where Lance's hopes inflated like a hot air balloon. Then Harpe's tired voice came back on the phone.

"Sorry, Lance. But Keith's needs are above yours, right now. Please don't call back."

Then the call was ended.

 **AN:**

 **Yay for realistic actions from Harpe that we all hate!**


	26. Truths Are Nonrefundable

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Ch26— Truths Are Nonrefundable**

Keith was lying in bed, basking in the feeling of the aches and pains of his body easing away with Harpe sitting nearby. The pain didn't go away completely, of course, but Harpe was like a little Advil pill. Him being close got rid of the worst, and just left an underlying ache that only one person in the world could totally get rid of.

"Feeling okay?" Harpe asked for the millionth time.

"Harpe, seriously," Keith said with an exasperated smile. "I'll tell you when something happens, or if I start feeling worse."

"Sorry," Harpe said, turning back to the math textbook that sat open in his lap.

"It's fine," Keith lied.

Harpe was a pain reliever, but he was also a stress inducer. Keith felt guilty for thinking that way, especially when Harpe was going so far out of his way to help out, when he could've just left Keith to survive Break on his own. He felt guilty, but he also felt smothered.

But he also found himself craving more time with Harpe. He ate all his soup, drank all his water, took all his medicine, and did anything else Harpe asked him to do because it was Harpe asking.

"Here," Harpe said, handing Keith a sports drink. "Drink at least half, we don't want your electrolytes to get too unbalanced."

Keith nodded and accepted the bottle with shaky hands, draining half the red liquid in seconds. He saw Harpe watching him closely out of the corner of his eye.

"Not too fast, you'll be sick again," Harpe warned with a fond smile, taking the bottle from Keith's weak grip.

"Probably won't be sick again. I've been feeling a lot better," Keith said.

"Are you sure? I could go get something for your stomach, if you need."

"Really, I'm fine."

"Good," Harpe said, relaxing back into his seat. "What about that migraine? Or those full-body aches?"

"Harpe, I'm okay," Keith said tiredly. "Really, you're good at this and you're helping me feel better."

"Oh," Harpe said, looking surprised. "Really? I was worried I wasn't… well, I'm glad I'm helping."

"Thanks for sticking with this, by the way," Keith said impulsively, that mixture of exasperation and guilt warring again. "You didn't have to."

Keith was glad someone had come around. If no one did, he probably would've been hospitalized by his fifth day due to starvation and dehydration because he couldn't make food or hold a glass of water.

But mostly, Keith was glad it was Harpe. All he had was Hunk and Harpe, and he barely had Harpe. If all he had to do to make Harpe stay was let him feel like he was helping, then that was what Keith was going to do.

"What was I going to do? Leave you to deal with this alone?" Harpe said with a smirk. "Hunk would kill me."

"Still," Keith said with a laugh. "Thanks."

Harpe gave him a sad look.

"Keith, I have a feeling that help doesn't come to you that often."

Keith shrugged and said, "Often enough."

"For some reason, I doubt that."

Keith began tugging at his blankets, pulling them to the side, pulling them up, pulling them straight. He stopped when Harpe's hands grabbed his wrists.

"I got your back, Keith," Harpe said, eyes serious and honest. "I don't lie about that, and I don't help people I don't care about."

Keith looked down at their hands, which were now joined.

"You should get some more sleep," Harpe suggested, reaching behind Keith to mess with his pillows.

"All I do is sleep," Keith complained, squirming down lower on his bed so his head could rest against the pillows.

"It's good for you, your body needs rest," Harpe said with a smile as he pulled the blankets up to Keith's shoulders and settled down beside him.

"Yeah, yeah," Keith grumbled, closing his eyes and melting into his comfortable bed.

Within minutes, when it felt like he was floating somewhere between awake and dreaming, Keith heard a soft knock on the door. Assuming it was another classmate with a vase of flowers or Tupperware of soup, Keith ignored the intrusion and didn't even open his eyes to greet his visitor.

"You've got to be kidding me," Harpe said under his breath as something heavy, probably his textbook, was set on the desk.

"Is he asleep?" asked a soft male voice from the doorway.

Keith perked his ears, listening hard to the voice to figure out who's it was. It kind of sounded like Lance, but Lance rejected him and probably didn't like him all that much, so there was no way it could be him.

"You shouldn't be here," Harpe said cautiously.

"I just want to help," the voice from the door said pleadingly.

The voice sounded so much like Lance, it was almost painful. Chalking it up to separation anxiety and wishful thinking, Keith tried to ignore the conversation happening at his own door.

"He's close enough to the end of Break. He doesn't need you," Harpe said through gritted teeth. "Until Break is over, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"You can't make that decision for him—"

"If you haven't noticed, he's not exactly in the right frame of mind to make any decisions right now. Especially ones that might affect his health."

"So, I should probably stay in case he'd want me to, if he was awake. Which he would, by the way," said the quietly confident voice that was most definitely Lance.

"You're just here for the drama and the attention," Harpe said coolly. "Don't try to play it like you're actually concerned."

"Excuse me?" Lance said. Keith could hear the sneer in his voice.

"The more I try to keep you away from him, the more you seem to want to be by his side," Harpe explained. "Maybe you're here because you're a bunhead craving the spotlight, just like the rest."

Keith didn't need to open his eyes to know that Lance bristled at that.

"Right, I forgot," Lance said in a falsely cheerful tone that made Keith feel a little smug. "All you fancy art school kids think dancers are a joke, a bunch of floozies out for money and fame."

"Uneducated ones are."

Keith grimaced, teeth grinding as he tried to force his heavy eyes open. He tried to unhinge his taut jaw and get the muster the energy to speak, but his body was completely uncooperative. Instead, he groaned as loudly as he could in the back of his throat.

"Keith?" Harpe asked, concern bleeding through his voice. "Are you awake? Are you okay?"

"Ugh," Keith responded.

"Yeah, I figured as much," Harpe said with a laugh.

The spot on the bed next to Keith's side dipped and Keith struggled to turn his head. He found Harpe sitting next to him, hand poised above his hair.

"Lan…?" Keith requested hopefully.

Harpe's expression closed off and he pulled his hand out of Keith's hair, leaning back. The sound of soft footsteps coming closer was painful suspense. Another person sat down on the bed, but closer to Keith's head.

"Hey," came Lance's soft voice.

Keith shifted uncomfortably and awkwardly propped himself up on numb elbows, keeping one forearm pressed against Lance's bare thigh. Lance was wearing his usual tiny dance shorts and a breezy blue tank top that was more for looks than coverage.

"Careful, don't sit up," Harpe warned, reaching out to push Keith to lie back down.

Keith gripped his helpful arms and used them to pull himself completely upright. Seeing what Keith was doing, Harpe chuckled fondly and Lance pulled Keith's pillows up to give him something soft to lean against.

"Thanks," Keith mumbled.

"No problem," Lance said with more sincerity than necessary, staring into Keith's eyes.

"Keith, do you want Lance to leave?" Harpe asked suddenly, arm resting on Keith's shoulder.

"Wha— no," Keith said. "No, why would I want that?"

"Keith, he's the reason you're going through Break," Harpe said gently. "He rejected you."

"No, I didn't," Lance said, talking more to Harpe than Keith. "I didn't and you know that. I explained it to you."

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe your story. Plenty of rejecters show up out of the blue to take back their soulmate in the middle of Break to make their soulmate more dependent on them. That way they can control their soulmate easier. It's sick and I won't let that happen to Keith."

"I'm not trying to do that," Lance said, fists clenching. "And it's not like I showed up out of the blue— I called and texted a million times! And why would I even lie about this?"

"Wait, what?" Keith asked, warmth swelling in his chest. He didn't know Lance tried to reach out and talk.

"Why would you lie?" Harpe repeated, ignoring Keith. "Oh, I don't know, to get back with Keith? To be able to make him do whatever you want? To make sure he'd never leave because he'd be so dependent on you and still weak from his Break?"

"That's ridiculous!" Lance scoffed.

"Wait, wait," Keith interrupted, shrugging Harpe's hand off his shoulder and leaning away from Lance. "What's going on? What are you talking about?"

"Lance told me that he had just freaked out when he found out you were soulmates and didn't mean to reject you," Harpe explained. "Now he's trying to get back together, even though you're in the middle of Break."

"Don't— see, when _you_ explain it, it sounds stupid," Lance complained.

"That's because it is."

"Guys," Keith interjected, "Please, shut up."

The room went silent. Keith sighed, staring down at his lap.

"Okay. Lance, explain."

"Oh, uh," Lance spluttered, looking thrown off. "I, uh, I wasn't rejecting you when I ran the other night. I mean, I know that's what it looked like, but that's not what was happening. I just… I don't know, I just don't have the greatest, you know, experience when it comes to dating and guys and..."

Lance didn't meet Keith's eye. He fidgeted with his hands and his clothes, like he was nervous and scared. He was also a little pissed, judging by the dark looks he kept giving Harpe, but nothing in his voice or body language said "liar."

"I didn't believe it for a second, when he told me," Harpe interjected. "Yeah, he might have been nervous and ran back inside after finding out that you guys were soulmates. But running off campus, not coming back, and sending you right into Break? It doesn't add up."

Keith couldn't help but be a little mad at Harpe for judging before listening, before knowing Lance and his past. It was nice to be the one to be protected and cared for, for a change, but Keith could take care of himself. He didn't need a knight in shining armor.

"Harpe, you do realize that I can read people pretty well, right?" Keith asked. "I've been doing that on my own for a long time."

"I know," Harpe said. "I know you aren't naïve. I just think you haven't been around Lance enough to see the real him."

"What do you mean by that?" Lance interrupted defensively.

"I did a little… research," Harpe said, at least having the decency to look guilty.

"You looked me up?" Lance demanded.

"You got my friend sick and hurting, and then you started bugging him while he was bedridden, talking about how you wanted to get with him, all of the sudden, after you rejected him. I needed to know who you were."

"This is ridiculous— you're paranoid!" Lance said, throwing his arms up in frustration.

"And you aren't?" Harpe said.

"Someone's trying to dig up dirt from my past, of course I'm a little paranoid."

"You're just afraid of what Keith will think when the truth is out," Harpe sneered.

"Oh yeah?" Keith said. "You think I'm going to think any differently about Lance? Tell us what you found."

Keith was morbidly curious. He wanted to know Lance. But he also wanted to defend every false claim Harpe probably had against him. He wasn't going to let Harpe warp Lance into sounding like a bad person. He wasn't a model citizen, but Lance was good and everything he did was for a reason.

Lance sighed irritably, but he relaxed under Keith's touch and scooted closer when Keith grabbed and held onto his arm. While Lance was getting comfortable, Harpe whipped out a notebook and his phone from between the pages of his clunky textbook that sat on the desk.

"Wait, I thought you were reading and taking notes for your math final," Keith said. "But you were stalking my soulmate the whole time?"

"I prefer the term reconnaissance," Harpe said, flipping through his notebook.

"Has any of this been fact checked?" Lance asked, gesturing to the stack of papers Harpe had gathered on him.

"I collected my information from trustworthy sources," Harpe said firmly.

"So Facebook."

"Shut up, I did I full background check. School records, police records— that stuff doesn't come from Facebook."

"Police re— that's classified," Lance said. He glared at Harpe, but the edge was taken off with how pale his face had gone.

"You'd be surprised what they put in public record," Harpe said knowingly. "Now, let's see… C student, dropped out of high school, ran away from home, never went to college—"

"This is ridiculous," Lance spat.

"The truth is, often, ridiculous," Harpe said, flipping to the next page in his notes. "History of stealing and vandalizing, works multiple entry level jobs— this isn't the kind of person who can support you, Keith. I know you can support yourself, and I'm not saying that money is the deciding factor in a relationship, but it _is_ a factor."

"Maybe to you," Lance muttered under his breath.

Keith squeezed his arm.

"Well, there's also your criminal history—"

" _Criminal history?_ " Lance bit out. "You wanna know what _real_ criminal history is? I'll show—"

"Woah, Lance, we know that this isn't all there is to your story," Keith said. "And Harpe, I know Lance. The real Lance, not the Lance in those records."

"You only think—"

"I can handle myself and I can decide what I want," Keith interrupted

"I didn't mean to… to take away from your choices, I just thought it was better that you stay separate," Harpe said. "There's a lot more in here— do you know that he—"

"Enough of that, I don't want to hear it," Keith said. "And just how long, exactly, were you planning on keeping me and Lance separate?"

Harpe looked away, jaw tightening. He flipped through his notes a bit.

"I mean, you had to figure that I would eventually check my phone and see all the missed calls and texts. You had to know that I would get back in contact with Lance at some point."

"Look, I don't know what my plan was, okay?" Harpe said, sounding frustrated. "I just— he's sketchy. And you don't know his history with… other men."

At this point Lance was on his feet and towering above Harpe like he was ready to throw a punch.

"Say a single thing about it, I dare you," Lance said in a threatening whisper.

"You mean say a single thing about the truth and let Keith know what he'd be getting into if he tried to bond with you?" Harpe shot back, getting on his feet, too.

"You don't know a thing about me."

"I know a lot of things about you, actually."

"So that's your plan, huh?" Lance demanded, voice rising. "Dig up a bunch of dirt, drag up crap from the past and try to use it against me?"

"He has a right to know—"

"He has a right to _ask_ first."

"Guys!" Keith shouted over the arguing.

He scrambled to his knees and wedged himself between his two friends as best he could, trying to pry them apart with weak arms.

"Like you would even tell him something like that, if he asked it."

"You wouldn't even give me a chance, would you? You'd go right ahead and tell him anything he wanted to know without asking me—"

"That's because you're a liar!"

"Guys, seriously," Keith tried again.

Harpe stepped forward, finger jabbing into Lance's chest. The force behind that small step was enough to send a still pretty frail Keith flopping backwards onto the bed. He let out an indignant squawk and grappled at the sheets to pull himself back up.

"… and arrogant, and rude, and selfish and— oh, my God," Harpe interrupted his own impressively long list of insults against Lance.

"Are you okay?" Lance asked, reaching for Keith at the same time Harpe did. Only, the difference between Lance's reaching and Harpe's reaching was that Lance actually reached. Harpe just grabbed.

Keith weaseled out of Harpe's grip, panic rising in his chest even though he knew Harpe was only trying to help. But his brain didn't see that. His brain saw people to close and yelling and one of them was grabbing and Keith was still on his back like an overturned turtle and—

Suddenly Harpe was on the floor, looking stunned.

"Keith, are you okay? Did… you kind of just freaked out, or something, are you…?" Lance trailed off, helping Harpe to his feet.

"I don't…" Keith stared down at his hands, realizing he had just shoved Harpe off like a trapped animal.

"Okay, why don't we all just… take a second and calm down," Lance said wisely.

He settled on the bed by Keith's pillow and gestured for Keith to join him. Keith rolled onto his front and crawled to his pillow throne, flopping down beside Lance. Harpe joined them, sitting stiffly at the foot of the bed and still glaring at Lance, though with a bit less heat in his eyes.

"Look, I don't know what's going on between you guys, but I'm going to do what I want to do. Whether either of you like it, or not," Keith said firmly.

"I wasn't trying to manipulate you or control you or anything; I just wanted to explain. That's all," Lance said glumly.

"So, we're supposed to believe that you just, what, woke up one day and realized you needed Keith in your life?" Harpe interrupted, an ugly look on his usually friendly face.

"I didn't reject him in the first place," Lance hissed. "I was unsure, yeah, but I didn't mean 'no' when I—"

"When you ran screaming for the hills?" Keith asked.

Lance's lip quirked up and he bumped his head gently against Keith's.

"Look, I'm not saying you're a terrible person, or anything. I just don't trust you. Especially not with Keith."

"I don't expect you to trust me, Harpe. I just want you to back off a bit and let me and Keith give this a chance, if we want to."

"I'm still here," Keith interjected. "And my dowry is a couple grand in student debt, in case you're curious."

"Sorry," Lance said sheepishly.

"I'm not trying to tell you what to do, I just— look, this is what Hunk would do. Isn't it?" Harpe asked, looking uncertain. "Isn't it?"

Keith eyed his neighbor closely. Harpe was sitting on the bed, back straight as a rod and whole body leaning towards Keith like he was a magnet. He looked really uncomfortable and insanely worried.

"Harpe, you haven't been… have you been trying to be Hunk for me this whole time?" Keith asked, sitting up.

"You love Hunk," Harpe said glumly, "he's the one you wanted helping you through Break, so I figured I could try to be the next best thing. You know, to help you be more comfortable."

"Aw, Harpe," Keith sighed, feeling like a jerk. He remembered how mothering Harpe had been, how he kept the room clean for Keith, how he laid in bed with him when he couldn't sleep— those actions screamed Hunk.

"Yeah, it's kinda weird, I know," Harpe said, ruffling a hand through his own hair nervously.

"No, no, it's… it's really nice. It's sweet," Keith said. "I just… didn't expect it. I mean, you always blast your music at midnight and you sometimes smoke in the hallway and steal everyone's towels while they're showering. I figured you didn't really, um, care about people, I guess."

"Ah," Harpe said with an embarrassed grin. "I guess I deserve that. I haven't exactly been the nicest guy."

"No, not really," Keith said with a smile to soften the blow.

"You know, you've got more people than Hunk. Once it got out that you were going through Break, everyone wanted to help. Had to beat them off with sticks."

"I really appreciate you, you know," Keith said. "A lot of people may have wanted to help, but they didn't. You did."

"Then don't let him ruin it," Harpe pleaded. "You've come really far. You only have, like, a week more of Break. Get through it and move on. Don't let this guy screw you up."

"This _guy_ is a friend," Keith said firmly while Lance sighed quietly beside him.

"I get that you like him. But he's not a good guy, and he's not good for you."

Keith ground his teeth together and fought to keep a neutral expression.

"Harpe," he said flatly. "I'm going to make my own decision about this. And you are going to deal with it. And you are not going to talk like that about anyone I know again."

Harpe flinched minutely and huffed a sigh through his nose. He stared Keith down with a disappointed expression.

"You're going to let him ruin everything we've gone through. He's the one who put you here, and you're choosing him," Harpe said quietly, but with a sharp voice.

"I'm choosing my soulmate. Not someone who's trying to ruin me," Keith corrected.

The three sat in a tense silence, Harpe waiting for Keith to crack, Keith holding his resolve and refusing to crack, and Lance sitting in the middle looking very confused and a little scared. Keith subtly reached for Lance's sweaty hand and squeezed it in his own.

"I think it's time for me to go," Harpe said softly.

"I agree."

Harpe gave Keith one long look before ducking his head and heaving himself off the bed. He grabbed his textbook off the desk that was covered in energy drink bottles, moved the bin of laundry he had just washed to go past the artwork he always praised Keith for, and walked right out the door without looking back.

"Soulmate, huh?" Lance said from beside Keith.

Keith sent him a sad smile and examined how nicely their fingers intertwined.

"I understand," he said.

"Really?" Lance looked like he wanted to believe it but couldn't.

"Really."

"You don't hate me?"

Keith coughed, choking on the air he breathed.

"What?"

I just…" Lance looked away, suddenly fascinated with something on the desk. "Harpe is right. I'm the reason you're in the position. If I just stuck around and talked it out—"

"I get why you ran," Keith said honestly. "I probably don't know half of what you've gone through, and I still get it. I probably would've done the same thing."

"No way," Lance scoffed. "You're the bravest thing there is. No way would you run from anything."

"Yeah, more like the most _stubborn_ thing there is."

"Better than being a selfish coward," Lance sang.

"Lance, you aren't—"

"Dark humour is how I cope, let me live."

"Okay," Keith said with a smile. "I'm glad you came back."

"Me too," Lance admitted. "But coming back doesn't suddenly mean we're a thing. I know that."

"Well, I think it would be dumb to try to be just friends," Keith said slowly, seeing where Lance was trying to go but not accepting an ounce of it at all.

"Yeah?" Lance smiled shyly.

"Well, yeah. I mean, our bodies obviously know that we're soulmates. If we hang around each other like usual and stay friends, we'll eventually rebond."

"Our bodies won't understand why we aren't trying to build the bond," Lance finished. "So, we'll always be back and forth between Break and rebonding."

"Exactly."

"So, then it's only natural…"

"It wouldn't make sense to _not_ be…"

"So, you want to do this?"

"If we do this, there's no more running," Keith warned. "I've got a weak heart. I can't take it."

"A weak heart?"

"Yeah, for you," Keith said without thinking. He blushed, glancing away from Lance's laughing eyes.

"Why, Keith Kogane," Lance said in an airy southern belle voice, hand on his chest. "I do believe I've just been wooed!"

"On second thought, maybe this won't work," Keith said jokingly.

"I'm nonrefundable, you can't return me."

"Wouldn't dare," Keith said.

 **AN:**

 **Yay, the moment we've all been waiting for! You're welcome.**

 **I'm still thinking about whether or not this should continue. It feels, if not finished, close to finished so maybe one more chapter. We'll see!**


	27. We're Going to Be Okay

**AN:**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender**

 **Ch27— We're Going to Be Okay**

"I'm already tired of explaining _us_ to people," Keith muttered, leaning back against the headboard of his bed.

"Sorry," Lance said with a wince, pecking Keith's shoulder in apology.

"Not your fault. People are just quick to judge and slow to listen," Keith said.

Keith was right. Some of their friends and family were _not_ taking them being together very well. And Jas, who they had just gotten off the phone with, was one of them.

"It's so weird, too, because Jas wasn't even there for the whole Lotor thing and the, um, other stuff," Lance said tiredly. "I told him about it, eventually, but he never actually saw the aftermath. He's also still pissed at me with the whole Luis thing."

"What do you mean?"

"It's kind of hard to explain," Lance muttered, fingers rubbing at his temples.

"Come here," Keith said softly, patting the spot next to him.

Lance immediately clambered onto the bed, toeing off his shoes in the process. His neon slides thudded to the floor as he carefully situated himself next to Keith.

"Tell me everything," Keith requested, tugging his blankets over Lance's legs and slipping his hand into one of Lance's.

"Most people want it short and sweet, when I talk."

"I don't. I want to hear you."

"You're such a sap," Lance grinned.

"You're stalling."

"Am not."

"Lance."

"Fine," Lance sighed, distractedly smoothing his fingers over the lines in Keith's palm. "I was, like, seventeen when I started working at the restaurant with Jas. We immediately clicked. He's a really caring person, so when he found a homeless teenager with no family, he latched on."

"He was there for you when you needed your family," Keith clarified.

"He was my entire support system, until Pidge came along," Lance said.

"Then, wouldn't he want you to be happy? Even if that means getting in touch with your brother, or getting closer to your soulmate?"

"He doesn't take to change well," Lance sighed, releasing Keith and dropping his face into his own hands. "You know, I thought you accepting me back would fix everything. But it's only gotten harder."

Keith was quiet for a moment, which was a common enough thing, but his jaw was tight and the rigid lines of his spine and shoulders were tense. A tense and silent Keith was never good.

"You know it's okay if you can't… if you don't want… us. Me," Keith said evenly. "This'll be hard enough with me still kind of in Break, and the new bond, but with half of your family not accepting this… I don't know, I'm just saying that if it's too much—"

"Nothing I've ever wanted has been easy," Lance interrupted. "I wanted to be a dancer, I wanted to be on Broadway. Do you know how hard it is to do that? And I did it. All of it. And I keep doing it. I can work for things I want, so don't give up on this."

Keith smiled and dropped his head against Lance's shoulder. They sat in the quiet for a moment, watching the snow fall outside Keith's window and listening as Lion purred in his sleep, curled up on a stolen quilt on Keith's bed.

"So how are your friends handling it?" Lance asked. "Better than mine, I hope."

"Well, Harpe is… not taking it well," Keith admitted. "He feels betrayed, confused. I think…"

"What?"

"I don't know, I think he fell too far into the aid role when I was in Break and, now that I'm not dependent on him anymore, he's kind of… lost."

"He partially bonded with you," Lance said, reading between the lines immediately.

It made sense. But, while it was common enough, it was still weird to know that it happened. That Keith was so far into Break and needed Lance so much that he bonded with someone else.

"I… sorry," Keith said guiltily.

"No, Keith, it's not your fault. You can't help who bonds with you," Lance said, trying to catch his eye. "And it's not your fault if you bonded with him a bit, too. It was Break. These things happen."

Keith nodded, but kept his gaze down and face half-hidden by his hair.

"What about Hunk?" Lance asked, trying to change the subject.

"Hunk is still with his family," Keith said quietly. "I don't really want to interrupt, especially with Grandma Talia being sick."

"Keith, you're Hunk's family, too. He'd want to know."

"I know, I know, I just… I don't want to give him one more thing to worry about," Keith said. "But I also don't want to upset him. He— don't tell him I'm telling you this, but he can't hear his soulmate."

"Oh," Lance breathed. "That's horrible, has he gone anywhere to try to find her?"

"He's still thinking about it. Last time I asked, he said the waitlist is super long, but I think he's just too scared to hear that he doesn't have one," Keith explained. "He'd rather not know."

"I get it," Lance said. "I used to think I didn't have a soulmate, either."

"There was no doubt in my mind that I had one. I heard your music all the time. It was really annoying," Keith said with a laugh. "But, for a while, I didn't realize that I wasn't giving back. Sharing music is one of the most important things you can do with a soulmate. Just to let them know you're there."

"It's okay, I wouldn't expect you to, like, force yourself to listen to music," Lance said. "But I'm kind of curious about why you didn't listen to any when you were a kid."

Keith sighed and Lance grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers to get his attention.

"You don't have to tell me."

"I want to," Keith said quietly. "It's just… music was my dad's thing. He played country music— like, old, old country music."

"I would stop listening to music, too, if I had to hear that," Lance said, grinning when he got a laugh out of Keith.

"I think he just loved how much my mom hated it. After she, you know, died…. he, uh, sort of stopped playing it. I know that's normal, but I guess seeing him shut music out of his life made me want to, too."

Lance couldn't imagine a life without music. Music was always on when the McClains' were around. On the radio in the kitchen, on the TV in the living room, in the car, at the grocery store, at school. Music was _everywhere_.

"I can't imagine just… letting music go," Lance said. "Or how hard that must've been for you to do."

"It was either play music and constantly remember my mom or stop listening to it and be able to just… forget for a while," Keith said with a shrug. "It was an easy choice."

"Still. you had to miss it."

"Not really. I was never a fan of country, but that was what was played in my house," Keith said with a shrug.

"There's so many kinds of music on in my hou— my parents' house," Lance said. "My sister loves Latin pop like me, but Luis is more of a jazz person, and my mother just loves her church hymns…. I guess, with a big family comes a lot of tastes in music."

"It must be nice, having a big family," Keith said distractedly.

"Sometimes. But it's not all sunshine and roses," Lance said. "I'm not that close with them, anyways, though. I mean, I carpool with my brothers and sister, but that's pretty much it."

"Still," Keith said, eyes on his lap. "I've always wanted a big family. Sometimes it feels like I do, because Hunk is always including me with his family. He always says he has plenty of relatives to spare."

"Is Hunk what made you start listening to music again?"

"No, actually, it was an old family friend," Keith said. "He sort of showed up when I was twelve or thirteen. He got me out of foster care and helped me figure out what I wanted to be."

"This is that guy from the drawing that Griffin made fun of you for, right?"

"Yeah, that's him," Keith said. "And your dancers are jerks, by the way."

Lance laughed at Keith's matter-of-fact tone.

"Dancers seem like jerks, but we really aren't," Lance explained. "We have to be aggressive to get to where we are, and some people keep that front up."

"You're not a jerk," Keith blurted out.

"What?"

"You're not a jerk. You're proof that you can be a decent person and still be a good dancer."

"Aw, Keith," Lance said, heart warming. "That's so sweet!"

"Shut up. See if I compliment you ever again," Keith said, crossing his arms.

"Please forgive me, most grumpy one," Lance pleaded with mock desperation.

"You're horrible."

"But you love it," Lance said, only half-confident he was right.

"Yeah," Keith said after a minute, expression softening. "I guess I do."

"You know who else loves you and accepts both your grumpy and your sappy side?" Lance asked. "Hunk. We should call him."

"Lance," Keith whined.

"You're avoiding him, and you know it. No way would Hunk be okay with you stopping all contact with him because you think for some stupid reason that you'd be butting into his time with his family."

"I just don't want to add to, you know, the stress he's already having about Grandma Talia," Keith said quietly, fiddling with the hem of his blanket.

"Keith," Lance said, hand going to cover Keith's. "Tell him. He's not going to be mad."

"I-I know that," Keith said, voice cracking.

"And I'll be here the whole time," Lance added.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Keith watched Lance's face for a minute.

"Can I text him instead?"

"Are you really that scared of him?" Lance asked, started to get a bit worried.

He hadn't seen anything in Hunk that would make him think he was a violent or dangerous person, but Lance wasn't known to be the best judge of character.

"No, no, I'm not scared of him," Keith said quickly. "More scared that he'll react like Harpe."

"You said Harpe wasn't really happy with this," Lance said slowly. "But I'm guessing there's more to it?"

"He won't talk to me," Keith said with a sigh, anxiously brushing a hand through his hair. "He moved rooms so he's not living next door anymore, his girlfriend and his friends glare at me when they see me in the hall, he ignores me completely…"

"I don't think Hunk would ever just drop you out of his life like that. You and Hunk share a family," Lance reminded him.

"And I don't want to lose it," Keith said firmly.

"Keith, you aren't going to lose anyone. Do you really think Hunk is that petty and selfish?"

Keith sighed, clearly feeling stuck. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and slowly punched in his password. Dragging on the minutes before the call, he painstakingly scrolled through his contacts to find Hunk's number and clicked on it, thumb hovering over the green phone symbol. He bit his lip.

"I'm not going anywhere," Lance reminded him when Keith grabbed his hand.

Keith pressed call and put the phone on speaker.

"If this doesn't go well, I'm blaming you," Keith said weakly.

"There won't be anything to blame on me except the relief and success that will come from this phone call," Lance said confidently.

After a few seconds of ringing, Keith started to look antsy.

"I can't do this," he said in a desperate voice.

"Keith—"

"You don't understand. Hunk and his family are all I've got. I know I have you, now, but… I can't just lose them like this. I can't just—"

" _Hello_?" came a voice through the phone, along with background sounds of chatter, pots clanging together, and what could be a TV.

The panicked look on Keith's face was almost funny,

"Hey Hunk, it's Lance and Keith," Lance spoke up when Keith stayed silent.

Something on the other end of the line rustled.

" _Oh, hey guys, what's— Natia, put that down!"_ Hunk shouted.

Lance and Keith exchanged a look at the sound of a child whining and an older voice speaking firmly in a foreign language.

" _Sorry, Natia keeps trying to play with Grandma Talia's tea sets,_ " Hunk apologized. " _Anyways, what's up guys?"_

"How's Grandma Talia?" Keith blurted out before Lance could get a word in.

" _She's doing a lot better_ ," Hunk said, voice brightening. " _She came home a little while ago, and it looks like I'll be going back to school in a few days!"_

"That's so good to hear," Keith said, sounding like several tons of weight were just lifted off of him.

Lance gave Keith an expectant look. When Keith failed to speak up, Lance did it for him.

"So, Keith has something he wants to say," Lance said, eyeing Keith. Keith glared at him.

" _Oh yeah? What's up, Keith?"_ Hunk asked warmly. " _Is everything okay?"_

Lance couldn't imagine Keith ever being scared of that voice. It was about as scary as a freshly baked cookie. Just as comforting, too.

"It's not bad, but, uh," Keith sent a panicked look to Lance.

"Do you want me to say it?" Lance asked quietly.

Keith nodded frantically; mouth pressed in a tight line.

"Well, we wanted to say that Keith and I found out that we're soulmates," Lance said in an awkwardly careful voice, not wanting to upset Hunk. "We've been together for a few days, now."

There was a moment of silence. Lance could hear laughter in the background of wherever Hunk was.

" _Holy shi— are you serious_?" Hunk breathed, sounding elated.

"Uh, yeah," Keith said, visibly relaxing at how well Hunk was taking the news.

" _Oh my God, why didn't you tell me sooner?"_

"Uh, well, it was a little bumpy at first," Keith admitted, casting another panicked look to Lance.

"When I found out we were soulmates, I kind of took off," Lance explained as evenly as he could. "I panicked and Keith went through Break because of it. I came back, obviously, it was kind of just a big miscommunication."

" _I feel like this is being downplayed_ ," Hunk said, sounding suspicious. " _Keith, you're okay now_?"

"Getting there," Keith admitted. "But Lance is here, so everything will be okay."

Lance's heart soared.

" _I'm happy for you guys. But Lance_ ," Hunk said in a suddenly sharp voice that sent a shiver down Lance's spine. " _If I ever hear you hurting Keith, you'll have a huge Samoan family_ _out for your blood_."

Keith chuckled, laughter growing when he got a look at Lance's face.

"Why are you laughing?" Lance demanded. "I just got a death threat!"

"He won't actually do anything to you, he's just messing with you."

"Says you," Lance muttered.

" _Oh no, hey guys, sorry to cut this short, but Natia and Fetu are literally climbing up the walls right now_ ," Hunk said. " _I have to go make sure they don't kill themselves_."

"I totally get it," Lance said. "I have little cousins and nephews. They're nightmares."

"Yeah, it's okay Hunk," Keith said. "And, uh, thanks. You know, for understanding."

" _No problem, man. But I expect the fully detailed story when I get back_ ," Hunk warned. " _No covering anything up or making light of anything."_

"Wouldn't expect anything less," Keith said with an exasperated smile.

" _Bye guys, don't get weird in my room_."

"Bye, Hunk," Lance said with a laugh.

" _And use protection, if worse comes to worse._ "

"Hunk, what the hell, man?" Keith complained, facing reddening.

" _And make sure you stretch before you—"_

" _Goodbye_ Hunk," Keith said loudly, hanging up.

Lance grinned at Keith's obvious embarrassment.

"See? That wasn't so bad."

"Yeah, it could've gone worse," Keith admitted, face still bright red and eyes flicking everywhere but Lance.

Giving Keith's nerves a chance to recover, Lance stayed quiet and took the second to look more closely at the paintings on the wall across from Keith's bed. The painting in the center of the collection was striking.

The overall painting was in dark blacks and greys, forming swooping arches of trees that curved over what looked like a person trapped by the long branches. The person seemed to be emitting some sort of eerie, negative glow that cast shadows against the trees, making them look jagged and almost like monsters.

"Wow, that's… scary," Lance said evenly.

He hadn't had the chance to see much of Keith's art, but he was pretty sure Keith wasn't a doom and gloom sort of artist. Lance felt justified in his concern. Then he saw a softer coloured area in the corner at the bottom of the painting. It was such a light blue, that it looked almost like a white, glowing flame.

"Oh, yeah. Failure number 22," Keith said, slumping a little where he leaned against the headboard of the bed.

"This is one of your 'painting feelings' things?" Lance asked, standing to get a closer look.

Behind him Keith sighed and dragged himself stiffly of the bed, following Lance to wall of paintings.

"Yeah, these are all attempts. I figured out that the vaguer and less realistic the visual concept, the easier emotion leaks through," Keith said with a shrug. "At least it's easier for me."

"Whether you got the emotion thing right or not, these are all amazing," Lance said honestly.

He grinned when he noticed one of the paintings to be of himself dancing across a huge, empty stage. The details down to the drops of sweat on his face, and determination and joy in his expression were incredible. Another portrait was of Hunk, who was crying with a big grin on his face at the benefit that seemed to have happened years ago, not just months.

"Keith, I think you got that emotion thing down," Lance said, feeling both impressed and proud.

"You think?" Keith asked uncertainly. "Even the ones with people in them?"

"Especially the ones with people in them," Lance said, leaning in to inspect his own portrait better. "Hey, you got my double freckle in there!"

"Why wouldn't I get your double freckle?"

"Uh, because it's ugly."

"I think it's cute," Keith said, leaning in to press a kiss to Lance's cheek where the overlapping freckles sat.

Lance felt his face heat up quicker than a furnace.

"Wow, Keith, you really are turning up the sap today, aren't you?" Lance teased.

"Shut up. You know you love it."

Lance snorted, throwing an arm around Keith's shoulders. He felt something unclench in his chest when Keith leaned in.

"Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we're going to be okay."

"Yeah."

 **AN:**

 **We love fluffffff.**

 **Sorry that this was a bit exposition-heavy and low on the everything else. I didn't want to have them going around and telling every single person they knew because that would be tedious to write, and probably not fun to read.**

 **This is the end of this story, but I'm thinking about doing another story from this universe where we figure out what's up with Hunk's soulmate and what Luis is planning to do with… everything. That probably won't come out until like this upcoming February**

 **Anywho, I hope you had as much fun with this as I did!**

 **Love always**

 **Eb**


End file.
